


Hunted by Night's Light

by That_Ghost_Kristoff, TheElusiveBadger



Category: Shadowhunters (TV), Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Allison Lives, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Clary and Jace Are Actually Siblings, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-07 01:10:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6778939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/That_Ghost_Kristoff/pseuds/That_Ghost_Kristoff, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheElusiveBadger/pseuds/TheElusiveBadger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clary and the Lightwoods get a lead that Valentine is conducting experiments on downworlders in a place called Beacon Hills across the country, and seize the chance to get Jace back. Scott McCall and his pack just wanted a normal year. No one gets what they want.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Scott McCall and the Disappointing Start to Second Semester

**Author's Note:**

> Neither of us have read the books so we have chosen to just use show canon. Also, Allison is alive and Danny did not fuck off.

It’s Friday afternoon not long after school’s ended, and Scott lets himself be dragged along with Allison and Lydia to the precinct to deliver John a dinner of grilled chicken and salad. He isn’t expecting to find the new girl there in the holding cell when he arrives. 

“I’m telling you,” she’s saying. “I wasn’t doing anything. You can totally check the door.”

Though they have English class together, Scott hasn’t gotten a good look at her yet because she sits behind him, but he can see now what Lydia meant about the hair—it’s fiery orange, and extremely curly. She’s sitting cross-legged in the cell wearing a brown leather jacket a size too big, a bright yellow t-shirt, and jeans scribbled on with marker. John sighs, rubs his temple, and startles when he turns around to find Stiles right in front of him holding out his dinner.

“Yo, Daddy-o,” Stiles says, grinning and looking past his dad’s shoulder. Suddenly, there’s a flicker at the window and a smell like floral perfume, but when Scott tries to get a better look, whatever was there is gone. “What’s the new girl doing in the cell?”

Again, John sighs, and folds his arms. “Stiles,” he says, “how’d you get past the deputy?” 

Stiles waves his hand dismissively. “They know me,” he says. “So why  _ is  _ she here?”

“I’m being wrongly detained,” the girl says loudly from the cell, drawing everyone’s attention. “They’re saying I graffitied the school’s door, which I did  _ not. _ ”

“Actually, there was something there,” Lydia says, peering past John. “It looked like the tattoo on your neck.”

The girl’s hand goes up to the mark, which looks more like a scar than a tattoo, and her sleeve rides down, revealing something similar on her arm that Scott doesn’t like, though he can’t place why. Before he can say anything, that flicker comes again, and then the back door is open, and the new English teacher and some other girl walk through like they don’t expect to be caught.

Allison says, “I don’t see—” but Scott cuts her off, pushing past John to ask, “What do you think you’re doing here?”

Instantly, the unknown girl freezes, but Mr. Monet draws a  _ bow  _ quicker than Allison. The new girl stands just as fast, pulling what looks like a magic wand from her pocket. Lydia says, “What the hell?” as John turns around and Stiles and Allison scrunch their faces in confusion.

The other girl looks shockingly like Scott’s cousin Nina who he hasn’t seen since he was six, but she’s dressed more revealing than Tia would ever allow. Her black crop top is low, drawing emphasis towards her chest, and her skirt is shorter than any Lydia owns. And Mr. Monet doesn’t look much like a teacher now. He’s wearing a leather jacket with a tight t-shirt, which makes him seem even taller, and there’s another odd looking lightning-shaped tattoo standing out prominently on his very pale neck that hadn’t been there in class this morning.

If only Lydia and Scott can see these guys, then something’s really not right. And this was just supposed to be a normal year.

“You can see us?” the English teacher says as the girl’s bracelet uncoils like a snake into a whip. “How can you see us? What are you?”

Stiles glances to Scott and asks, “So, why are you just talking to the air?” as Lydia demands the same of the apparently invisible, clearly supernatural newcomers. Who break vandals out of jail.

The best he can, Scott sums up the situation to Stiles, keeping his eyes on Mr. Monet, who looks two seconds away from loosing that arrow. “They haven’t said why you can’t see them yet,” he adds. 

“Aaron,” the girl with the whip says, looking to Mr. Monet, “they can already see us. We should just de-glamour.”

“It’s against proto—”

“Only  _ some  _ of them are human,” Scott’s classmate says, exasperated, and the other girl’s whip retracts as she takes out her own magic wand and runs it over a tattoo on her forearm. They’re something new, like witches maybe, but it doesn’t seem like it’s the right time to ask.

Mr. Monet lowers his bow and does the same, practically pouting. A moment later, everyone can see them. Without warning, John draws his gun, which makes the others draw their weapons again, too. 

This year is definitely not going to be normal. 

“I think everyone just needs to calm down,” Scott says, not prepared to see a shootout in the precinct that John probably won’t win. “Can’t we just talk about this?”

“McCall is right,” the new girl says, catching him by surprise. He hadn’t known she knew his name. “No one’s going to hurt anyone if we can just talk.”

Before Scott can agree, the girl starts running her magic wand across the lock like she’s drawing. Allison’s hand twitches like she’s going for a weapon that isn’t there, and she says, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Graffiting the jail cell,” Stiles says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Isn’t vandalism kind of her thing?”

Then there’s a noise like something breaking, and the bars slide open. The girl steps out, twirling her wand, and Mr. Monet says, “Well, you’re out. We can go now.”

“You’re their new teacher, idiot,” the other girl says, frowning. “You really think you can avoid them without us explaining a few things?”

Stiles steps forward, and pushes down his dad’s gun. “We should probably hear them out,” he says, even though his suggestions usually involve chloroform and murder. 

“How about we start with names?” Lydia says, and moves to stand next to Stiles. Scott shoots a look to his girlfriend, who nods, and they step forward, too, leaning back against John’s desk. “I’m Lydia Martin. You should really lower your weapons.”

For a moment, Mr. Monet doesn’t look like he’s going to move. Then the new girl puts her hand on his elbow, and he slowly—and reluctantly—relaxes his arms. He doesn’t put his bow away, but at least the arrow isn’t knocked anymore. “I’m Aaron Monet,” he says, and looks to Lydia. “But you already knew that.”

“I’m Iris,” the girl says, retracting her whip so it returns to a bracelet on her wrist. “The sister.”

John raises an eyebrow and says, “Didn’t you just apply for a position in forensics?”

With a smile, the girl—Iris—answers, “Well, yeah. Best forensic scientist in New York City. Which means you’re John Stilinski.”

“I’m Claire Monet,” the new girl says, which fits her so well that there’s no way it’s real. “And we know who the rest of you are. Is your name really Stiles?”

Though Stiles goes to answer, Mr. Monet cuts in, “Wait, Stiles? Isn’t it—”

“Yes, it’s Stiles!”

Everyone’s silent for a long pause before John clears his throat. “Well,” he says. “Now that that’s established, are you going to tell us what you are and why you’re here?”

Iris puts her hands on her hips, and settles her weight on one leg. “No,” she says with another smile. “You’re going first. Why could you see us? You two are  _ clearly _ not human.”

“Wait, why are we answering first?” Allison says, crossing her arms. “It’s our town. You’re the ones who broke in here.”

“Hey, he’s the one who arrested me,” Claire says, gesturing dramatically to John. “Or, well, the one with the pretty eyes did, but he questioned me already. I think  _ we  _ deserve answers first.”

Everyone looks ready to protest, but Scott wants to avoid a conflict if he can, because even with their weapons, these guys don’t seem dangerous. He says, “I’m a werewolf. Lydia’s a banshee.”

“A werewolf?” she says. “We have a werewolf with us. He’s our step-dad.”

The mention of another werewolf relaxes Scott just a bit, but does nothing for anyone else. “Cool,” he says, trying to keep the atmosphere as calm as he can. If Stiles has the opportunity to talk, this entire conversation’s going to explode. “So, you know what we are. What are you?”

All three of them share a look like they’re having a whole silent conversation before Iris says, “I guess you could call us  _ nephilim _ .” 

“Half-angels?” Stiles and Lydia say at the same time. Lydia continues, “You’re kidding.”

Very, very quietly, John says, “There are angels now?” and Scott almost wishes he never found out anything in the first place. He doesn’t deserve this. 

Claire rocks back on her heels and says, “Yeah, I didn’t believe it when I first heard, either.”

“How does that even work?” Allison says. “Did your mom sleep with a shower of gold, or is that too Greek?”

“It’s not that direct,” Mr. Monet says, offended. The girls seem offended too, like Allison just insulted their parents, which Scott supposes she did. “And what kind of bullshit is having sex with a shower of gold?”

Under his breath, Stiles makes a comment about swans and bulls that Scott hopes they didn’t hear, but thinks they probably did. Supernatural hearing and all that. It seems common. If they did hear it, though, they don’t react, which is good, because it gives John the opportunity to ask again what they’re doing in Beacon Hills. 

Claire sighs. “It’s our brother,” she says. “We’re looking for him. He disappeared two months ago, and we really want him back. That’s why Mom and Louis are here.”

Family’s a motivation Scott understands, but he doesn’t think that’s the full story. Claire’s heartbeat jumps at the word “brother,” so if that’s true, there’s more to it. Even so, he nods for now, and decides to keep the information to himself until later. “So are there any more of you?” he says, and they all answer no simultaneously, way too quickly. It doesn’t take a heartbeat to know they’re lying. 

“Right,” John says. “Do you want to file a missing person’s report?”

“We can’t,” Claire says, and shifts, uncomfortable. “He’s with my dad.”

That, at least, doesn’t seem to be a lie. Scott gets divorced parents, but his dad was never a dick enough to kidnap him. “So he’s not technically missing,” he says, trying to make sense of the situation. “You guys obviously know where he is if he’s here.”

Shrugging, Iris says, “We’ve got an idea. He’s in the area.”

“So if you guys brought a small army,” Lydia says, motioning to the bow and whip, “for a custody battle, then I’m guessing your father’s dangerous?”

Claire nods, and looks more serious than she has so far. “Definitely,” she says. “Like murder people for fun dangerous.”

“Charming,” Stiles says. “Hoping the apple falls far from the tree.”

Both Iris and Mr. Monet shoot him a glare. “It does,” he says, tone sharp, before he turns his attention to his sisters. “We can leave now. They know enough.”

“See you in school Monday,” Claire says as John calls out that they’re still pressing charges, but they’re already out and away.

As the door bangs shut behind them, Stiles laughs. “Dad,” he says, finally putting the most boring dinner in existence down on the desk, “how can you press charges for something you  _ can’t see? _ ”

John lets out a low, long sigh. “I’ll figure something out,” he says as the main door opens, and Parrish enters.

“You might want to hold up on that,” he says, seemingly not noticing the sudden empty holding cell. “A dead body was just found by the high school.”

Scott shares a look with his friends that best translates to  _ oh fuck _ , because it’s the first week of school after winter break, and bodies shouldn’t be dropping already. All he wanted was a normal year.

 

 

“Wow, you barely even need enhanced vision here,” Simon says, cupping his hands around his eyes like binoculars. “The buildings are so low it’s like the ground’s right there.”

Alec scowls and ignores the vampire, refusing to admit that these suburban towns made spying from rooftops without the concealment rune a bit difficult. He motions for Simon to crouch down so that the top of his hair isn’t visible to any of the downworlders or mundanes below. Unfortunately, one of the downworlders seems to notice; Scott McCall sniffs at the air, peering around at the rooftops from his place behind the police cars. This was going to be harder than usual.

“It’s the boondocks,” Clary says, “Of course everything is low.” Her hair is tucked back in a cap to conceal its bright color from anyone. It makes her look almost like a school boy. “So, what are we going to do when they find us?”

Alec glares at them. “Just keep out of sight and they won’t. And be quiet. They’ll hear you. Especially the werewolf. Can’t someone put a muzzle on Simon?” 

“Werewolves can sniff us out,” Izzy says, walking past him so her low heels click loudly against the cement of the high school roof. “We should just draw a new rune.”

Waving his hand towards Clary, Alec says, “Draw it. Quickly.” He doesn’t add that this idea should have been brought up  _ before _ they’d even arrived because he refuses to admit that he’d dropped the ball on something so simple. 

Clary nods once, and gets to it without speaking, though just two months ago they’d have to listen to some sort of snappy comment first. For a moment, they all riffle through their books trying to find the proper one until Izzy says, “Here,” and hands it off to Clary. She does herself first, cringing, then moves on Izzy, and finally Alec. It burns, but he grits his teeth and deals with it. A minute later, they’re done.

Everyone but Simon. “What about me?”  he says, raising his hand. “Uh, don’t I need some sort of protection?”

Alec rolls his eyes and says, “This is why the vamp—oh. Simon, you’re going to be the decoy. Stay here.” 

Without explanation, Alec moves to exit the rooftop, waiting for Clary and Isabelle to follow him. He can hear the vampire sputter behind him in indignation but he needs to get closer to the body in order to see how she’d died. If Clary wants to yell at him for being rude to her best friend, she can keep it to herself until later. First, they have information to gather. 

Although the incident at the precinct earlier showed that the werewolves and the banshee could see them even with the concealment rune, Alec figured they might be able to get close enough if they could conceal themselves behind the bushes. With Simon being his usual annoying self on the rooftop, no doubt throwing a fuss, hopefully the werewolf and his smarmy friend will be distracted enough they won’t notice them at all. 

For once, they actually strike a bit of luck—they settle into the bushes fast, only to realize they’re adjacent to a school bus stopped for the night right next to the crime scene’s tape. “I bet we can get closer,” Clary says, already inching out of the foliage towards the bus. Alec shares a quick look with Izzy and follows, wondering how he ever let himself be friends with a girl who’s obviously going to get them all killed. 

He blames Jace.

“It’s like someone lit a fire  _ inside  _ her,” the man examining the corpse is saying to the Sheriff from the station. “I don’t know how else to explain it. The autopsy will reveal how, but there’s no evidence of a struggle. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say spontaneous combustion did her in.”

Alec can’t see the corpse with the mundanes blocking it, but it sounds like the trail of downworlder bodies that they’d found in Brooklyn after Valentine left with Jace. And even though he can’t see, Izzy must be able to, because she makes a soft, exasperated sound, and says under her breath, “It looks nothing  _ like  _ spontaneous combustion.”

“Not now, Izzy,” Alec whispers, not wanting to alert anyone to their presence. “Clary, can you draw it later?” 

She nods, her orange hair falling out of her hat as she does. “We should go,” she says. “I’m worried Simon got himself killed.”

Though Alec almost wishes that was true, the vampire seems like a cockroach. He’d be the last one standing over everyone. Except Magnus. Magnus, who—well. Except Magnus. 

Together, they crawl out backwards on their elbows until they’re in the bushes again. Past the bus, Alec can hear the Sheriff saying, “How’s that even possible?”

The man from before answers, “Beats me. Maybe the devil is running around Beacon Hills.”

Clary jerks, and thins her mouth, but keeps going, and then they’re around the side of the school and away from the prying eyes of any werewolf in the vicinity. “They’re right, aren’t they?” she says, pulling off the hat. “Valentine is out of control. We need to find them before more bodies pile up.”

Alec wishes it was that simple, but Valentine had been in hiding for years before Clary showed up. Not even the Clave, or any of the best downworlder warlocks, found him when he didn’t want to be found. Finding Jace is almost a fool’s errand. If Alec hadn’t already weakened their parabatai bond he would’ve tried finding him that way, but that would probably kill them both. 

Before they can make it back to Simon, Alec stops abruptly. He sees Izzy and Clary go tense next to him, and within a few seconds he spins around on his heel, arrow knocked and pointed at the werewolf and his friend.

“We’re not looking to fight you,” the werewolf says, holding up his hands. “What are you doing here? Is this about your dad?”

Alec raises his eyebrow, and tries hard not to think about Valentine being his father. “Do you always sneak up and interrogate people you don’t want to fight with?” he asks. 

Even though the mundane can’t see them right now, he gestures wildly in any direction and says, “Are they making excuses? Why are they here? Tell them friendly angels don’t just show up hidden to crime scenes.” 

Sighing, Clary runs her stele across her glamour rune without passing it by Alec first, seemingly materializing into existence in front of the mundane, who jumps. “We’re just checking it out,” she says. “Are we supposed to do that out in the open?”

“I suppose looking at your dad’s handiwork in front of the sheriff and his entire force is a bit difficult,” the mundane says with a sharp edge to his voice. “If I’d eaten, I doubt I’d be able to keep my dinner down looking at  _ that _ .” 

Izzy de-glamours before the mundane can even finish speaking, so Alec gives up, and runs the stele across his arm. Though Clary’s trying to keep herself in check, she’s not good at hiding her emotions, and she’s  _ upset _ . “I didn’t,” she starts, but stops when the mundane and the werewolf’s attention shift from her to Alec and his sister. 

“Are you sure about that, Stilinski?” Izzy says, folding her arms across her chest and angling herself so she’s slightly in front of Clary. “You look too familiar around crime scenes to lose your dinner.”

Though Alec wants to say something, the werewolf cuts him off before he can, saying, “Everyone needs to calm down. Stiles, shut up. You’re making it worse.” 

Beacon Hills was never going to just be a day trip, if rumors about the Nemeton are true, but Alec wasn’t expecting this particular brand of annoying to come along with their time here. “Yeah, you are,” he says, drawing himself up to his full height. “Stay out of our way. We know what we’re doing.”

If the werewolf and the mundane are here, then presumably Simon’s all right. Alec scans the rooftop, but can’t see their original location from their current angle. 

The werewolf steps forward and holds out his hand. “This is still our town,” he says. “We can help you.” 

When it’s clear Alec isn’t going to take his hand, Clary moves, and grasps it instead. “Thanks,” she says. “We’ll contact you if we decide we do need you. I mean, our lockers are in the same hallway.”

If Alec could take her up for insubordination he would, because she’s making this more difficult than it needed to be right now. The werewolf has no right to push himself into their business like this. She’s just encouraging him, as usual.

Then, suddenly, there’s a noise from the corner, and two women burst from around the side with Simon between them. The taller one that Alec recognizes from his third period academic class throws Simon to the ground, and says, “We found this asshole on the roof. He’s saying he’s some kind of Dracula wannabe.”

Alec glares at Simon, who groans on the ground, trying to shake her foot off. She’s thin. You’d think as a vampire the idiot would be able to at least fight off someone’s  _ foot _ . 

“A little help here guys,” he says, eyes finding Clary’s. 

Izzy’s arm is up in an instant, whip out. The girl—no—the other downworlder flinches when the whip hits her, jumping back. Simon scrambles off the ground, running over to Clary, who dusts off his shoulders, getting rid of the dirt. 

“What the hell?” the mundane says, looking from the downworlder girl from third period to Clary and Simon. “What the hell was that? You can’t just go around attacking people either. It makes you very untrustworthy. I don’t trust you.”

“That’s the least of my worries,” Alec tells him, rolling his eyes. “But you’re being redundant. C minus for grammatical errors,” he adds, which makes Izzy and Clary laugh. He looks at the other new girl with the long black hair. She’s a downworlder too, but there’s something different from the other two about her. 

She blinks, staring at him uncanningly, and says, “Wait, so you’re the new English teacher?” She looks at the mundane. “Didn’t you say he was really hot?”

The boy takes a step back, eyes wide. “What?” he says. “No—of course not. You have no idea what you’re talking about, Kira.” His arms flail. He looks a bit like an octopus on dry land.

“Uh,” Clary says, sounding awkward for the first time, “I think that’s our cue to leave, right? He’s a little too old for you, Stilinski.”

“But he looks seventeen!” the Kira girl says. 

Alec shifts from one foot to the other, and says, “I’m twenty-one.” He very much does not acknowledge anything else going on. “See you in class. On Monday.”

Alec grabs Simon’s arm so that he can pull him away before anything else goes wrong. As if answering a wish he never asked for, the werewolf interrupts, saying, “Someone needs to explain this whole vampire thing first. Because last I checked, those didn’t exist.” 

With a grin, Izzy says, “Who says they do?” and together, they run off into the night.

 

 

On the Monday after Lydia meets the three strangers in the precinct, she corners Claire Monet at lunch, where she sits alone at one of the tables outside. “Do you mind if I join you?” she asks, and takes a seat anyway before the girl can answer. 

“Sure,” the girl says with a frown. “Help yourself.” 

Lydia smiles, and stabs at the small carton of juice with a straw. “Your mom’s the new math teacher, right?” she says. “Isn’t a requirement to become a math teacher knowing how to solve math problems or do they do things differently in angel school?” She sounds a bit like Stiles when she says it, proving she’s been spending a bit  _ too _ much time with her boyfriend lately.

Rolling her eyes, Claire says, “You can drop the ‘angel school’ thing. And yeah, I guess it’s a requirement, but my mom’s an artist. I’m guessing you already know it’s a cover.”

Lydia nods, and takes a bite of her wilting salad. “Not a very solid one. Still, your brother knows how to teach English. I’ll say that much for him.” 

“Well, that’s because he can do anything,” Claire says, almost fondly. Not for a moment does Lydia believe those two are siblings, especially when Claire uses a tone like that, but she’ll play along for now. “And it’s solid enough as long as my father doesn’t look at the details, which he won’t. He doesn’t even know we’re here, and we’re keeping it that way.”

The way she says it isn’t quite a threat but nearly there—expose us, and you’ll regret it. But Lydia’s dealt with Peter, and Deucalion, and the Nogitsune, so some random girl isn’t going to scare her, even if she does have insanely perfect hair. 

She pictures Claire standing next to her “brother,” both of them too perfect to be real, and smiles. “So,” she says, “you don’t need to worry about any of  _ us  _ telling. We’re good with secrets. What’s your real name?”

With a short laugh, Claire says, “Sorry, I can’t tell you, or I think my brother would literally kill you.”

“Does he even need an excuse?” Lydia asks, remembering the trigger happy angel at the station. 

“Hey, we have rules,” Claire says. “They’re import—oh, god, I sound like him. So, what other classes are you taking, Lydia?”

If that was Claire skirting the subject, Lydia hopes that she isn’t part of some angel spy ring back home because she fails epically. “Just the two. You?” There’s something about Claire that seems not  _ older _ , exactly, but not quite the right age to be sitting in a high school lunchroom eating salad that went bad yesterday while doodling on her jeans. 

Claire explains that she’s just taking those two and art. “I’m not really going here,” she says, peeling the sticker off her mealy apple. “No point in putting myself through more of a school day than necessary. Is there anything to do around here but school? All I keep seeing is woods, woods, and more woods.”

“I’m sure a city girl like yourself is unused to the smell of fresh air,” Lydia says, smiling at her, making sure to show all of her teeth. “I’ll show you around the Preserve sometime.” She flips her hair. “If you want to, of course. I mean, you could stumble around in the dark by yourself, but it will just take you longer to find your brother if you fall off a cliff.” 

At the mention of her brother, Claire’s face falls, and Lydia almost feels bad. Using a little boy to guilt trip his older sister isn’t her greatest moment. “Yeah,” Claire says. “Sounds great, as long as you’re the one driving, since I don’t even have a car.”

Lydia privately wonders if Claire even knows how to drive, since she’s from New York City and probably never had to, but keeps that to herself. “I’ve had my own car for years,” she says, sipping at the disgusting excuse for orange juice the schools supplies its students. “So, next week?”

After Claire agrees, she and Lydia swap numbers and finalize their plans. Hanging out with the half-angel girl covered in tattoo-like scars is probably inadvisable, but Lydia can’t help but feel drawn to her, and can’t tell yet if the reason for that is good or bad. 

 

 

Between the murder and the  _ nephilim _ , Scott almost forgets about lacrosse tryouts, and only manages to show up because Coach corners him after to class to remind him about it. He isn’t expecting to see Claire Monet there when he arrives. 

“Now this just isn’t fair,” Stiles says when he sees her, leaning his weight on his lacrosse stick and staring. “She’s everywhere.”

She really is, which is beginning to make Scott nervous. Even Theo, who reappeared only a few weeks before the Monet family showed up, hasn’t been around so consistently. Just yesterday, Scott even saw her in the grocery store’s juice aisle, perfectly visible to everyone, looking at the strawberry lemonade. 

As Coach calls everyone to order, Claire disappears from view behind Greenberg, and Liam, Scott’s baby beta werewolf, and Kira join Scott and Stiles by the bleachers. Liam peers around the gathered crowd of potential new members and says, “Who’s the girl?” 

They haven’t told Liam about the Monet family yet, nor Mason, nor Theo. Though Scott thinks there’s something off about them, he doesn’t want to risk any information getting out and jeopardizing the safety of their little brother. Despite feeling guilty for lying, he shrugs. “She’s in my English class,” he says. “Her name’s Claire.”

“Is the team officially going co-ed?” Kira says, excited, fingers curling around her lacrosse stick. “Does this mean I actually get friends in the locker room?”

“I don’t know how friendly she’s going to be,” Stiles says, and glares towards where she’s hidden behind Greenberg, who has to try out again for Varsity, or risk getting sent to JV for his senior year. “The bow and—”

Scott elbows him just below the ribs so he yelps in pain. Liam shoots them a confused look, but they’re saved from explaining when Coach calls over the established members to give them their positions. “You two are on defense,” he says, clapping Scott and Stiles on the shoulders. “Weed out the weak for me, boys. Make me proud.”

As they take their positions, the crowd of hopeful players disperses, Greenberg at the lead. He’s tall, but reedy, and only sits on the bench every year because his dad thinks he’ll never leave his room if he isn’t on the team. Behind him is some junior Scott’s seen talking to Liam but who he doesn’t know personally, and six guys behind him, there’s Claire. She’s standing half outside the line with her stick in her hand, twirling it into the dirt, and her braid hangs out from under her helmet, glowing orange in the January sun. Underneath her jersey, she wears under armour, which covers any tattoos. 

No one starts the second semester of their senior year in a new school. Of course they’re all lying.

Greenberg catches the ball Kira throws to him from the sidelines with only a minor fumble and runs forward. When he shoots, it’s too early, and Scott catches it without issue. Coach blows his whistle, and calls out, “Second string,” because even if Greenberg is worse than Scott or Stiles ever were, he’s going to be on the bench until the day he graduates. 

“Pathetic,” Coach says after Scott stops Liam’s classmate mid-rush by knocking into him, and repeats it four more times when everyone screws up. “I’ve never seen such a useless excuse for lacrosse players in all my time as coach. First person to make a shot gets an A in class.”

“Uh, Coach,” Stiles says, “not everyone here takes econ.”

“Shut up, Bilinski.”

Over at the stands, Lydia shows up with Allison and Malia, taking their seats next to Kira and Liam, and Scott notices for the first time that the new math and English teachers are there in the corner of the top row—she’s watching intently, and he’s grading papers. As Allison waves, Scott draws his attention away from Claire’s family, and waves back. Coach snaps at him to get his head in the game like they’re on the set of  _ High School Musical _ , and blows his whistle for Claire’s turn.

Scott knows that supernatural creatures are usually fast, but he still isn’t expecting her speed. She rushes forward, ball already in her net, and weaves easily around him and then around Stiles until she’s past both of them. When she shoots, Danny doesn’t stand a chance, and it goes straight between his legs into the goal.

Up in the bleachers, her mom whoops, but it’s drowned out by Coach saying, “First string!”

“This is fucking terrific,” Stiles says as Scott groans, and Claire pulls off her helmet before running right towards her family. “And just no one thinks that’s weird?”

“Practice starts after school tomorrow,” Coach says as the seventh guy steps up and waits his turn. “Three o’clock sharp. Got that, cupcake?”

“Sounds perfect,” she answers, loud enough to hear clearly, and sinks down between her mom and brother, wrapping her elbow around his and laying her head against his shoulder. Kira, Malia, Allison, and Lydia all turn to look at them, but Liam’s lost interest already, and has returned his attention back to his classmate taking position. 

In a voice so low only Scott can hear, Mr. Monet says, “This is a waste of time.”

As Scott and Stiles block the next guy, Mrs. Monet reprimands her son for not letting his sister have fun. Scott finds it slightly odd, since her youngest son is missing, and he knows if it was him his own mother would be beside herself. “Besides,” she says, “it helps to blend in.”

By the end of tryouts, Claire’s the only one to have made a shot, which means Coach needs to put the potential players against each other tomorrow to see who actually has a chance. The girls and Liam join Scott and Stiles on the field, and watch the Monet family walk away to the parking lot, Claire in the middle.

“What’s with you guys?” Liam says, obviously confused. “You keep staring at them. Is it because they’re new? ‘Cause they seem pretty normal, and the girl’s really hot.”

“Yeah, except for the fact that they are like horror movie level close,” Allison says as they disappear from view behind the row of school buses. It’s dark now, and the temperature’s dropped significantly. “Totally normal, average family.”

“And they’re  _ always  _ lying,” Malia adds, and frowns.

Scott’s usually willing to give people a chance, and the benefit of the doubt, but there’s something about these guys that that just gives him the creeps. “Let’s get out of here,” he says, deciding to worry about them tomorrow because he has homework tonight, and more importantly, Mom’s making _ arroz con pollo _ . “My mom said she’d make enough dinner for everyone.”

His friends agree, and they leave. When they get to the parking lot, Scott sees the Monet family get into a blue van. Mrs. Monet’s behind the wheel of the car, but her son lingers outside, and roots around in the back. Claire is on her cell phone sitting shotgun, though Scott has no clue if she’s texting or scrolling through the internet. At this moment, they really do  _ look _ like a normal family. 

Maybe they really are just lying because they’re caught in the worst custody battle of all time, or maybe that’s a lie, too. Either way, Scott’s not willing to risk his pack’s safety again, and will wait to do anything until he’s sure they’re a threat. 

 

 

Mom’s making blueberry pancakes when Clary stumbles into the kitchen at six-thirty the next morning, freshly showered and dressed for the day in a pair of jeans and a long sleeved blouse. Izzy’s at the table fiddling with her phone, awake because of Clary’s alarm but still in her red nightgown. Since it’s dark for another half hour, Simon’s here, drinking blood in a mug and pretending it’s coffee to make himself seem normal while Luke attempts to extract actual coffee from the Keurig machine, bitching at it for making mornings more complicated, and already smelling of Old Spice. 

As Clary takes a seat next to Izzy, she asks, “Where’s Alec?” He’s not a morning person, like her, but he’s still usually up before she is. He’s her ride to school, since her first class is his, and Mom’s day doesn’t start until second block.

“Right here,” he says from behind her as Luke tells Mom they’re getting an actual coffee maker. Alec’s hair is still wet, but he’s dressed as neatly as always in a pair of slacks and a button down. It’s weird how well he fits as an English teacher. He takes the seat next to her at the table, which is already set with plates and forks. “Coffee?”

“Coming up whenever Luke figures out modern machinery,” Clary says, rubbing her forehead. She was done with high school and its early hours and drama. There’s no way that she, at eighteen, is supposed to be waking up at six-fifteen to make it to school on time for English. When she applied for art school, she planned on making certain she had no early classes. “Mom’s making pancakes.”

Simon’s shoulders slump at the mention of delicious breakfast. “Jocelyn makes the best pancakes,” he says, sighing. Izzy reaches over and pats his arm in sympathy. Giving up Mom’s food has been hard, especially her lasagna. 

“The secret’s in the orange juice,” Mom says, dropping two on the stack forming on the plate next to the pan. She’s still in her pjs, like Izzy, but her hair’s styled and her makeup finished.

Finally, Luke succeeds in conquering the Keurig, and starts on another, the machine whirring to life. Clary calls first coffee over Alec, since she was here before him, and says, “Don’t give me that look. I have practice today. I deserve it.”

“You’re the one who signed on for it,” he says as Mom carries over the pancakes and Clary’s coffee, complete with milk and sugar. “Thanks, Jocelyn.”

“She’s just using it as an excuse,” Izzy says, putting away her phone to join the rest of them in attacking the pancake plate for her portion. “Simon was right when he said not to get between her and caffeine.”

Grinning, fangs on display, Simon says, “I’m right about most things Clary related.”

Finally, Luke joins them, bringing his and Alec’s coffees. “Isabelle and I are going around the town to see what we can find out,” he says. “It’ll be easier while the town pack’s in school. Will you be home by seven? I want to invite over Alan for dinner.”

She met Alan Deaton briefly on the first day, but they haven’t had the chance yet to sit down and talk to him. All she knows is that he’s something called an emissary, which means he can use magic but is still a mundane, and that Luke can’t enter his office because he uses a barrier downworlders can’t cross. Though she hasn’t been part of this world that long, it’s been long enough that the thought of a human using magic makes her about as nervous as it makes Alec and Izzy. She bets it would make Jace nervous, if he knew, but it’s better if he doesn’t.

Mom says, “Practice can’t last longer than four thirty-because of the late bus,” which Clary should’ve known, since she’s the one on the team and all. 

“I’ll get you,” Izzy says, and stretches like a cat. “I want to see my  _ little sister _ play lacrosse with all the boys.”

“I’m only doing it because of the amount of stuff that goes down at the school,” Clary says, because really, it’s not as though she’s jumping at the opportunity to play a full contact sport with a bunch of teenage boys. 

The rest of breakfast passes in silence until Simon stands and claims it’s getting too light out for him to stay awake. “Try to avoid getting attacked by any demons today,” he says before heading out, as though that isn’t the entire point behind being here. When Clary’s high school held a job fair for its seniors, she said she wanted to be a graphic designer, and hadn’t expected demon killing to become her career path instead. 

Still not quite awake, Alec rubs his eye, and begins to gather his stuff. Clary does the same, while Izzy walks around the kitchen, tapping her phone screen every few seconds. Clary wonders if she is emailing about the internship position at the Sheriff's office. Together, Luke and Jocelyn clean up the dishes when the scanner that Luke commandeered from his job back in Brooklyn goes off. Clary doesn’t recognize any of the codes, despite knowing Luke her entire life, but she can recognize the tone. 

“ _ Body found _ ,” the voice says. “ _ Male. Mid-teens. Over by the bowling alley. Request back-up and forensics. _ ” 

Alec freezes, hand clenching around  _ The Complete Works of Shakespeare _ , and Clary shoots him a look. The house falls silent, the only sound the static of the scanner, as they wait for an answer. 


	2. Alec Lightwood and the Mystery of the Rubber Dessert

**Chapter Two.**

“Sheriff Stilinski gave me the internship today,” Izzy says as Jocelyn gives her a slice of tiramisu that Alan brought. She’s standing, and handing out everyone’s requested desserts at her end of the table, leaving the other side to fend for themselves. “I start tomorrow. I guess he liked my application.”

Alec stares at the weird, rubbery blue Eiffel Tower-shaped dessert Magnus brought with him that sits in the middle, half-paying attention as Clary says, “That entire application was forged, Izzy.” 

“I think he just wants to keep an eye on you,” Simon says, pointedly ignoring the rubbery dessert as well. 

Though Alec wants to ask Simon—or Clary—what it is, he thinks that would be rude. If Magnus brought it, then he has to enjoy it. His boyfriend loves many mundane things, such as  _ America’s Next Top Model  _ and  _ The Jersey Shore _ . Alec wonders sometimes if too many years on earth starts to eat away people’s taste in entertainment. 

“Of course he wants to keep on eye on her,” Magnus says, eating the top slice of his dessert. It’s directly in front of him, which means it’s directly in front of Alec, since they’re next to one another. On Alec’s right is Clary, who sits across from Simon; at the heads of the table are Jocelyn and Luke with Alan next to Simon, who’s next to Izzy on the other size. In the center of the table, besides the rubber thing, is a tiramisu that Alec swears is store bought, and Jocelyn’s homemade blueberry pie. Magnus continues, “Still, she’s qualified, so that has to help.” 

Nodding, Izzy says, “And I’m the only one who can actually tell him what the cause of death is.” She licks mascarpone off her fork, and goes for another sliver, though she hasn’t finished her current one yet.

“And what is the cause of death?” Alan asks. “So far, it seems like they’ve ignited themselves from the inside. What is Valentine actually doing?” 

Jocelyn cuts a piece of blueberry pie particularly viciously as she says, “Turning downworlders into shadowhunters. And failing.”

When she says “downworlders,” Alan shifts uncomfortably. Luke knits his forehead, and asks, “Alan, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Alan says too quickly, and reaches for Magnus’ rubber dessert. It even  _ smells  _ rubbery, though the vanilla cinnamon scented candles burning by the pie almost hide that. “Where did you get your lead to come here?”

As Alan cuts himself a slice, the thing shivers, and Magnus beams before shooting Alec a look like he’s supposed to understand some great meaning. Ignoring his boyfriend’s growing scowl at his lack of response, Alec answers, “There’s been a lot of activity in the area. The San Francisco shadowhunter unit isn’t equipped to handle it, if it is Valentine.” 

Under his breath, Luke says, “They weren’t even equipped to handle an entire town that disappeared,” which makes Jocelyn laugh into her glass of the wine she won’t let Izzy and Clary drink.

“That could be because of the Nemeton,” Alan says, but cuts himself off with a grimace when he takes a bite of the dessert. 

“Yeah, we know about the tree thing,” Clary says. “But we usually ignore that kind of activity. This is a different kind of activity. We’ve been following Valentine’s trail from Brooklyn.”

They’d been going across country killing demons and Circle members for two months, and Alec is tired of being squished into motel beds every night. Beacon Hills is almost a relief, if it weren’t for having to teach mundanes who don’t know the difference between Italian and Shakespearean sonnets. But for the first time, it feels like they actually have a solid lead, and possibly even a chance. 

Magnus clears his throat suddenly, and stands. “Does anyone else want dessert?” he asks, and shoots another look to Alec that he pointedly ignores. “It needs to be refrigerated soon. Portal hopping with food makes it spoil faster.”

Maybe that’s why it looks like there are floating bits of fungus in it. After everyone  _ very  _ politely informs him they don’t want anymore, (except Simon, who says he’s having a dinner of “grapes,” while holding up his wine glass filled with blood) he brings the dessert into the kitchen. The moment he’s gone, Alec turns to Clary and quietly says, “What the hell is that thing?”

“I don’t know,” she says, voice just as low. “I was hoping you’d be able to tell me. I think I saw it on  _ Rugrats  _ once. You’re the boyfriend, haven’t you eaten anything he’s made?”

Alec hasn’t. The few times Magnus tried to make anything for him, it usually involved items that were both raw and burnt at the same time, and that was just an unholy union. 

“It’s called a jello mould,” Luke says. The shadowhunters’ eyebrows all raise simultaneously. “It’s from before your time. Be thankful for that.” 

Before Alec can ask what he means, Magnus comes back, reclaiming his seat by his side. “You’ll have leftovers for a while,” he says. “I don’t want to go through another portal with it tomorrow morning.”

As Jocelyn thanks him for so generously leaving it with them, Alan says, “How much trouble will this business bring? There’s a werewolf pack here that I have a special interest in protecting, and they’ve been through enough.” He looks first to Simon, then to Magnus, almost accusatory. 

“Hey,” Clary says, drawing Alan’s attention back to her. “They’re the good guys.”

“Valentine’s bringing enough trouble on his own,” Izzy says bluntly. “We’re just trying to fix his mess and get our friend back.”

“And if you’re talking about Scott McCall,” Alec says, staring at Alan, “he’s going to get himself killed if he and his friend don’t shut up about werewolves in class. They’re louder than club music.” 

Magnus puts his hand on Alec’s arm as if to calm him down. “This area has had some extensive trouble with demons lately,” his boyfriend says. “The man has a reason to be worried. Isn’t that right, Alan?”

With a nod, Alan says, “That was last year. It affected Scott’s pack most of all, but the entire town suffered.” He explains about a Japanese demon possessing Stilinski, something about fireflies, and the almost death of Scott’s girlfriend Allison Argent, who’s the only one Alec actually likes. “If Kira hadn’t called the hospital as quickly as she did,” he says, “then Allison would have lost her life.”

“The risks of running with wolves,” Simon says, an ill-timed joke that makes Clary elbow him and Alec and Izzy roll their eyes. “Oh, sorry. My bad.”

“I know you said the San Fransisco unit was useless,” Clary says, glancing around the table, “but how did they seriously not do anything about  _ that? _ ”

Alec thinks they were most likely drinking gin in Hollywood, deserting their posts, but keeps that to himself. Izzy, with no qualms about respect, says, “They were probably in Margaritaville, if anything we’ve heard is true.”

“It is,” Luke says, and then adds to Alan, “We’re here to stop anything worse from happening. I can’t say it’s immediate. It would be a lot easier if the pack didn’t try to stop us, or even if they helped us. Stopping Valentine is the only reason we’re here. I swear.”

“And getting back Jace,” Clary says, running her fingers through her hair. “We’re not leaving unless he’s coming with us.”

It’s been two months, but unless she’s lying, she still won’t call him her brother. Alec doesn’t blame her. 

Again, Alan nods, and says, “Good. We all understand one another.” He stands up and pushes in his chair, shrugging on his suit jacket. “Thank you for dinner. It was lovely. Best roast beef I’ve had in years, Jocelyn. Luke, walk me out?” 

Alec watches them leave and turns to look at Magnus, who’s still glaring at him. “What?” Alec asks, annoyed that Magnus just isn’t saying whatever it is that’s bothering him. “Did I do something?” 

“You didn’t try my jello mould,” Magnus says, as if Alec was actually expected to consume that disaster. “It was delicious.”

“Seriously?” Alec says. “No one tried it! Bother them about it. Why am I held accountable for this?” 

Simon’s on his feet immediately, whistling “In the Doghouse” as he walks away, abandoning them. Izzy and Clary both just smirk and follow the vampire, looping their arms together and giggling. 

“I’m not dating them,  _ Alexander _ ,” Magnus says, and sighs. “Though I thought at least Biscuit would try it.”

Alec opens his mouth to argue but, unexpectedly, Jocelyn starts to laugh without shame, cutting him off. Finally too annoyed to stay at the table, Alec gets up and follows the girls and Simon into the living room where he can hear the  _ Star Wars  _ theme song playing again, leaving Jocelyn to suffer Magnus’ pestering alone.  

 

 

Though Scott wanted to get a look at the two victims right away, lacrosse practice and homework meant he wasn’t able to, so by the time he and Stiles make it to the morgue, Tracy Stewart’s body’s been removed. Josh Diaz’s is still there, though, so it’s at least worth checking out, even though Stiles does have to steal the coroner’s access card to get in.

Scott hears familiar voices the closer he and Stiles get to the morgue, and holds up his hand to stop his friend from entering. It sounds like the Monet’s, and Scott wonders what they could possibly be doing inside the room. He turns to look at Stiles and asks, “Did your dad give Iris Monet that internship?” 

Inside, Scott hears Claire laugh as Stiles shrugs and says, “Dad hasn’t mentioned it. Why? Do you hear them? Maybe they broke in. I bet they’re the type of people to break in. They already tried with the precinct.” 

“Yeah, you’re right,” Scott says, and doesn’t understand why Deaton could really believe they were safe. “Come on. We should stop them if they’re doing anything.”

“Seriously?” Stiles says. “The people with the arrows and the magic wands? What are we going to stop them with? Kumbaya and the power of positive thinking?” 

Scott shakes his head, but doesn’t answer, too used to Stiles to care, and pushes open the door. He isn’t expecting to find Iris standing over the body with a scalpel, wearing an actual lab coat, while the other three sit around eating Chinese food straight out of the cartons—or two of them anyway. The possible vampire spins around in his chair, and throws a basketball shaped stress ball at the ceiling. Mr. Monet sits on one of the cold, empty metal tables, working chopsticks better than Scott did last year, while Claire reclines back in another spinning chair, legs propped up so they rest next to her brother. Despite the mutilated body on the table, everyone’s relaxed in a way Scott and his pack never would be in the same situation.

They all stop moving the moment Scott and Stiles enter, but at least no one pulls a weapon this time. Mr. Monet stares at them unnervingly and demands, “What the hell are you two doing here? Isn’t it past your bedtime?” 

While, yeah, Mom would probably want him in bed by now, he’s a seventeen-years-old alpha. He doesn’t have a  _ bedtime.  _ Indignant, he says, “We should be asking you that question. What are you doing with that body?”

“Uh, an autopsy?” Iris says, raising an eyebrow.  In her lab coat with her hair pulled back into a neat ponytail, she looks way more professional than he thought she could after the other day. “Or, reviewing it anyway. My ‘mentor’ here did a horrible job of it. His notes are a mess.”

“This is a nightmare,” Stiles says, putting his hand to his forehead. “My dad hired you.  _ You _ . The crazy, whip-wielding angel with heels that could probably poke out someone’s eyes. This is a nightmare.” 

“ _ Half _ -angel,” Mr. Monet says, and dips his chopsticks back into his cold sesame noodles. Josh Diaz’s body lies on the metal table, cut open in a Y so it's burned insides are exposed, and he and Claire are just eating like it’s nothing.

Scott actually feels sick when Iris sticks her scalpel through one of the open burns on the corpse. “It’s not like any of the coroners here are going to know what to do with downworlder bodies,” she says as Stiles’ knees knock together and he grabs the table Mr. Monet is sitting on for support. 

“If you can’t handle it,” Mr. Monet says, shifting slightly so he’s nearer to Claire, “then just get out of here. We’re handling it.”

“I’m fine,” Stiles says, although his usual caustic tone is buried underneath obvious nausea. “I’ve dealt with worse.” 

Shrugging, Claire says, “Suit yourself,” and takes a bite of lo mein. “Is this one like the others?” She’s twisted just enough to be noticeable, angled towards Mr. Monet, and Scott thinks Lydia’s right; they don’t look or act like siblings at all, even if they do both seem to have a thing for leather jackets. 

Iris nods. “It’s just as bad as it was in Brooklyn.”

“Wait, Brooklyn?” Scott says. “You mean you’ve dealt with this before?”

While he’s waiting for an answer, the might-be-a-bloodsucker whose name he doesn’t know misses his throw, and the basketball lands with a loud crash against the table where the corpse is lying. “Sorry,” he says as Claire sighs, picks it up where it rolled next to her, and throws it back nonchalantly. 

“My dad’s an asshole,” Claire says, shrugging again. “You get used to it after a while.”

Stiles glares at them. “You’re all assholes. You probably learned it in the cradle.” 

The guy who looks too hipsterish to be an actual vampire says, “Hey, Claire’s awesome. She kicked Marvin Summers in the balls for me at my bar mitzvah.” 

“You knew a guy named Marvin?” Izzy says, looking up from the body. If they’re really related, she should probably know that. “Oh, wow. Someone’s parents hated him.”

Nodding, the guy says, “Yeah, he was kind of a boob. Looked a bit like a wookie, with more fillings.” 

Scott’s head swims from confusion at the oddly domestic sight happening in front of him over a dead body, but he ignores that, and says, “Listen, if you’re here to look at the body, then look at it. If your dad is dangerous enough to cause that—” He gestures towards the brutal sight of the corpse. “—then I think you all could be at least more serious about it.” 

“Our brother is missing,” Iris says, “so sometimes we have to laugh, or else we’re just going to be overwhelmed all the time. What good will that do?” 

Though Scott doesn’t want to admit it, he sees the logic behind it, because lately  _ he’s  _ been overwhelmed. “Yeah,” he says, and glances at Stiles before continuing, “So what killed him? We heard it looks like spontaneous combustion.”

With half a laugh, Claire’s friend says, “No downworlder’s really going to die from spontaneous combustion. Is that a thing? I thought it was a myth.”

“You’re living with a bunch of half-angels, dude,” Stiles says, standing on his own now. “You’re seriously talking about myth? Who are you anyway? What are you?”

The guy leans back and widens his eyes. “I’m Dracula. Fear me.”

Mr. Monet reaches over and slaps the back of his head. “Shut up, idiot.” 

Though Scott expects someone to clarify who or what the guy really is, no one does. Since he’s with them, Scott wants to assume he’s also a half-angel, but he doesn’t have one of the tattoos that the others do. Instead of giving at least his name, Claire looks towards Iris and asks, “What type of downworlder was he?” 

“Some kind of shapeshifter,” Iris says, backing away from the body finally and taking off her bloody gloves to drop in the trash. “Not a werewolf. Might be a thunderbird, but I don’t see evidence of wings.”

“So he’s some type of electric producing downworlder?” Mr. Monet asks, putting down his empty carton of Chinese food, and crosses his arms across his chest. “That knowledge gets us absolutely nowhere.”

“Well, it shows he isn’t moving to humans,” Claire says, setting her Chinese food down next to Mr. Monet’s. “At least there’s that, right? Though it seems like there’re more than enough downworlders in this area.”

“You know,” Stiles says, “you should keep the racism in check. If you’re supposed to be protecting people, at least pretend to care about them.”

Mr. Monet and Claire’ friend shoot each other a look of confusion, while at the same time Iris opens and closes her mouth several times. Claire just blinks owlishly. It’s somehow even more insulting that they didn’t even  _ realize  _ how they sounded. Ever since Scott first heard them use the term, it’s bothered him, but not enough to say something. Even so, he’s relieved Stiles did. Stiles usually is the one to tell racist assholes to back off. 

After a long moment of silence, Claire says, “We don’t mean it that way. It’s just, I don’t know, a shorthand way of saying all the groups as one? Even my step-dad uses it. You know, the werewolf?” 

Scott wonders how she doesn’t realize that only makes it worse.

Mr. Monet shifts a bit, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, are you two just going to stand here watching or can you go?” he says. “What were you even doing here anyway?”

With all of the tension, Scott has almost forgotten why they were here in the first place. He shoots a look to the corpse, but with Iris there, it’s not like either he or Stiles are going to get close enough to look at it. Besides, she’s already sewing it back up. Thankfully. Sighing, he pulls Stiles away from the table he’s still leaning against, and tugs him towards the door without bothering to say goodbye. 

Inside, he hears Iris say, “Did we seriously just get accused of being racist?  _ Us? _ ”

When they’re out of earshot, Stiles wrenches his arm away and says, “Those guys are assholes.” Then he looks at Scott with an almost scandalized expression on his face. “Why didn’t you ever kick Jackson in the balls for me at my bar mitzvah?” 

“Dude,” Scott says, incredulous, “seriously? Now’s so not the time. We need to call a pack meeting.”

As they pull out their phones to text the pack, a man wearing glittery eyeshadow and a lot of leather walks by, carrying a huge bag in his arms. He smiles at them as he glides past, running his eyes up and down both of them, almost approvingly, before he opens the door that leads towards the morgue. Scott turns to Stiles, who just shrugs and says, “Probably a junkie.” 

Their phones light up with reply text messages, confirming everyone can come. Scott shoots back answers as they leave, the glitter-covered junkie already forgotten. 

 

 

Two days after the examination of Josh Diaz’s corpse, Clary follows Lydia and Allison around the Preserve where the redhead points out several places where the pack had almost been killed in the last couple of years. “And I think this is where Allison almost shot Isaac last year,” she says when they come across a tree that looks like all the rest, gesturing with a hand movement reminiscent of Magnus. Dead leaves crinkle beneath their feet and twigs snap, but it’s less woodlike than Clary expects, the trees further apart than anywhere Luke brought her and Mom during her summers as a kid. “You won’t be meeting him. It was a dark time.”

“Lydia!” Allison says, turning to her friend with wide eyes. “ _ Seriously _ ? Do you want her to think I’m crazy?”

There’s nothing to indicate Allison is the type of person to shoot anyone, but if it was last year, maybe it had to do with the tree thing Alan was talking about. Deciding to pretend she knows nothing about that, Clary starts to say, “Well if it was self defense,” but stops when Allison gives her a look that indicates it wasn’t. “Oh. Right.”

Allison runs her hand over a tree before she says, “I was practicing my archery. It was an accident. I didn’t see him.” She trails off, which means there’s more to this story than just a simple accident, but Clary keeps that thought to herself. But then the other girl says, “Doesn’t Mr. Monet or Aaron or whatever make mistakes?”

Though Alec definitely makes mistakes in other areas, when it comes to archery, he so rarely does that even when he misses, he still manages to do some damage. “Sometimes,” Clary says, which is really a lie, and doesn’t tell either of them anything. 

A look of relief passes over Allison’s face, and even Lydia drops the subject. “So,” she says, breaking a forming silence. The woods are so quiet it’s eerie, the chilly weather causing local animals to retreat to their dens. In New York, there’s always something to hear, and the lack of noise makes Clary jumpy. Lydia continues, “I think we showed you almost everywhere important. Think you’ll be able to navigate it alone in the dark?”

With the night vision rune, the time of day doesn’t matter, and as a vampire, Simon’s practically made to see in the dark. “We’ll be fine,” Clary says. “Thanks for all the help.”

The three of them stand there awkwardly, not knowing what to say or do now. Lydia twirls a curl around in her index finger while Allison stands with her weight placed on one hip and her arms folded across her chest. Clary purses her lips and tries to think of something to say. Finally, after a long moment, she adds, “You guys have really had a lot of near death experiences. How are you all alive?”

“We’re good at what we do,” Allison says with a shrug. She looks at Clary with an unblinking gaze as a breeze sweeps by, brushing her loose brown curls across her face. “I’m sure you’ve dealt with your fair share of death scares.”

Before Clary can answer, she hears a noise in the distance like a shoe crushing a branch. “What’s that?” she says, turning around to get a clear view of behind her.

A boy emerges from the trees a moment later, wearing a jacket and jeans like a normal high school student, like Clary herself, however, she knows just instinctively that he’s another downworlder. They really are everywhere around here. 

“Allison,” the boy says, nodding at the brunette. He does the same with Lydia. “Who’s she?” 

“You could just ask me instead of saying ‘she,’” Clary says, annoyed already with this kid because too many people do this to her. There’s no reason to talk about her like she isn’t there when she’s right in front of them. 

Lydia greets him, though Allison doesn’t, and says, “This is Claire Monet. Claire, this is Theo Raeken. What’re you doing out here?”

Clary gets a bit of a creepy stalker vibe from this kid, and thinks he’s just a camera short of being a stereotype following them in the woods. Maybe it’s the too-charming smile or Allison’s narrowed eyes, but he’s just  _ off.  _ When he holds out his hand, and says, “Cool. Nice to meet you,” she shakes it, but only to be polite.

“Nice to meet you too,” she says, which sounds insincere even to her, and moves away to let him and Lydia talk. Apparently he’s going for a walk, which sounds like bullshit, because no one actually goes for walks in places like this without someone with them.

Allison inches over a bit, closer to Clary than she’s stood so far, and whispers, “You should avoid him. He’s—nosy. He’s a bit too obsessed with knowing what Scott and Stiles are doing. Like, even more than me, and I’m dating Scott.” 

Though Clary can believe this, Lydia seems perfectly all right with him and she’s dating Stiles. Lydia is smiling at Theo, but Allison looks at him with the type of distrust Clary’s only seen between the vampires and the werewolves in Brooklyn. “Claire’s family just moved here too,” Lydia tells him. “The hot English teacher is her older brother.”

Theo raises his eyebrow and says, “Oh? The one that teaches AP?” He continues talking but Clary tunes him out, focusing on the fact that Lydia said  _ too _ . A distrustful guy, obsessed with a werewolf pack, moving in at the same time that Valentine sets up camp? That’s too much to be a coincidence. 

“We’re having a girl day,” Allison says suddenly, smiling brightly, but looking almost pleadingly at Lydia. “Maybe we can do something tomorrow?”

Lydia doesn’t look at all surprised by Allison’s request, and she nods, turning to Theo. “We’ll text you,” she says. Clary looks at him, as well, and catches the flash of annoyance before it’s replaced with that charming fakeness. Seemingly not have noticed herself, Lydia looks back to Allison and Clary, and continues, “Want to head back? We can get something to eat.”

Clary hadn’t told Alec or Izzy about her plans to go to the Preserve with the girls. Since Valentine had disappeared with Jace, they hadn’t been apart for long periods of time, so she’s not sure how much longer she can really try to get information out of them without Simon using Find a Friend to figure out where she is. It would be beyond awkward to find Alec or Izzy looming behind her suddenly while she’s ordering an unhealthy dinner of a burger and fries at the local Red Robin or something. 

Even so, she says, “Sure,” and decides to let them down in the car, because she thinks Theo will probably invite himself along otherwise, which Allison is obviously trying to avoid. “Where’s there to go around here?”

As they leave, Allison and Lydia give Clary an entire run down of every eatery in town, but she doesn’t stop feeling Theo’s eyes on her back until they’re back to the car and out of the woods.

 

 

After Lydia drops Claire back at the school where her sister picks her up, she and Allison drive to the Argents’ apartment for a pack meeting. The kitchen is too small for the entire pack (sans Liam, who they haven’t explained the situation to yet) to fit, realistically, but it’s dinner time, and Allison and Scott both insisted they need Mr. Argent’s opinion, even though Lydia offered up her significantly more comfortable hot tub. Her mom’s out on a date today, so her house is perfectly empty and ready for use.

Instead they’re here, in Allison’s practically bare kitchen, eating two frozen pizzas and drinking Welch’s grape juice from mismatching plastic IKEA cups. 

Mr. Argent looks at all of them from where he is perched on his countertop with the most indignant expression Lydia has ever seen on his face. And she’s seen him interact with Derek Hale. “ _ Half-angels _ ?” he says after Allison finishes explaining the situation, staring at her, who sits across from him at the other end of the small island. “They’re real? My family has been around for hundreds of years. We fought the Beast. We hunt werewolves as a coming-of-age initiation. I’ve fought berserkers, kanimas, and fox demons, and you’re telling me that half-angels exist? How did my family not know about this? We’re everywhere.” 

“You weren’t missing anything,” Stiles says as he helps himself to a slice of olive and broccoli pizza.  He’s to Allison’s left, with Lydia on his right. Scott, Kira, and Malia squish together on the opposite side with him practically on the corner, as near to his girlfriend as he can be without directly sitting next to her. “They’re racist assholes.”

“So are the Argents, for the most part,” Lydia points out, stealing an olive off of her boyfriend’s pizza. He shoots her a look of betrayal, though, whether it’s over the olive or her undermining him she doesn’t really care. “What? It’s true.”

With a nod, Allison says, “It is. And Claire’s not that bad.”

Scandalized, Scott looks to his girlfriend and says, “Are you forgetting that we found them in the morgue cutting up Diaz’s body? While eating Chinese food?”

Mr. Argent shrugs and says, “Huntings strenuous. Got to eat,” as Kira points out they were technically in there legally.

“I mean, your dad had to have trusted her to hire her,” she adds, reaching across the table for the juice, which is dangerously near Stiles’ elbow. “Doesn’t that mean something?” 

Quick to disillusion her, Stiles says, “Dad wants to keep an eye on them. He figures having one of them close is better than having them all running around with no supervision.” 

“One of them is our English teacher,” Malia says. “They are supervised.”

“In that case, so was Jennifer Blake, and look how well that turned out,” Lydia says, crossing her legs. 

Kira, mouth full of pizza, asks, “Has anyone actually tried to be peaceful with them?”

Again, Allison nods. “We just hung out with Claire,” she says. “She said all of three things about herself, but she seems nice.”

“It’s hard to trust someone that’s not being forthcoming with information,” Mr. Argent says, and Lydia hopes he’s aware of how that sounds, considering the lack of trust between him and Scott in the beginning. “No matter how nice they seem. You know that, Allison.” 

“And the two of you didn’t see them in the morgue,” Scott says, tapping his crust against his clear, blue plastic plate. Despite how much money the Argents have, the quality of their material possessions has certainly gone downhill since Allison’s mom died. “I know Deaton said to trust them, but it was creepy.”

After being around Claire more than once, and in situations where no weapons were drawn, Lydia can’t really see her doing anything as creepy as Scott and Stiles are making it sound. “We’ve all done some rather suspect things ourselves,” she says. “Remember the time the two of you locked Jackson in a police van for two days?”

“It was Jackson,” Stiles answers, as if that excuses everything, which to him it does. Scott, however, agrees reluctantly like a reasonable person. “You traitor.” It’s unclear whether Stiles is addressing Lydia, or Scott, or both of them. 

“Can we just focus on why we’re here?” Scott says, while Malia and Kira nod. Neither of them have been around Claire or her siblings long enough to form an opinion, but Lydia could argue with her boyfriend about his snap judgments all day. His distrust of Theo is bad enough. “Josh Diaz was burned from the inside out. Allegedly. And none of them are telling us how.”

“Can’t we just—I don’t know—spy on them or something?” Malia says, automatically jumping to the worst possible solution. 

Stiles rolls his eyes and answers, “That will go over well. Spying on the trigger-happy half-angels who can sense when the supernatural are around. We’ll be pincushions in a matter of seconds. Brilliant strategy.” 

Frowning, Malia says, “You don’t need to be a dick. And we’ve gotten away from people before. They can’t be that good.”

Lydia thinks about the fast reflexes of both of the older Monet siblings, and isn’t too sure about that. “They’re amazingly quick. Claire reacted to Theo running into us earlier before any of us saw him.” 

Stiles frowns dramatically. “Why was Theo there? What was  _ he _ doing?” 

“Just going for a walk,” she says, but sees Allison stiffen across the table. “What?”

“It’s nothing,” she says, waving it away, and clearly lying. “It was just, you know, weird. He was suddenly there.”

“Like a cockroach,” Stiles says, not even bothered by the glare Scott shoots him. 

Though neither Allison nor Stiles trust Theo, Lydia agrees with the rest of the pack that he just seems like an overenthusiastic new kid rather than an evil mastermind. Kira, as though thinking the same thing, says, “The Preserve is kind of the only place to go around here if you want to run around at full speed without anyone seeing you. He might’ve been doing that.”

Obviously annoyed, Scott says, “We’re not here so that you can bitch about Theo, Stiles. We need to decide what to do about the Monet situation before more bodies pile up.” 

“If we’re not going to work with them,” Allison says, picking at the burnt leftover crust of her pizza, “and we can’t spy on them, then what are we going to do? We don’t even know how powerful their father is. I doubt Dad’s entire arsenal will even make a dent against this guy if how they’re acting means anything.” 

Mr. Argent leans forward, elbows on the table with his fingers laced. “So do I,” he says, looking around the island, “and I also think that if he’s powerful enough to burn bodies from the inside, you should all be more careful. His type seems to be anyone non-human, so watch each other’s backs. I suggest that you all avoid being alone as much as possible. Scott, Stiles, if your parents aren’t going to be home one night, stay at someone else’s. ”

Though Scott bristles a bit at that, Lydia sees the logic in it. Even alpha werewolves can be killed, which Peter almost proved last semester, and she doesn’t want to see her friend end up like Tracy or Josh. “My house is always open for slumber parties,” she says as she and Malia go for the last pie of frozen pizza at once. Reluctantly, she lets Malia have it, since she moved first. “It’s not like you don’t all know how to get through my window.” In true Juliet style, she has ivy growing up her wall, a loose latch, and her mother sleeps on the other end of the house. 

Stiles nods and hops down off his stool. He gestures to the empty plates of pizza and rubs his stomach. “I’m still hungry. Anyone want to go get Mexican with me? Since we’ve got to have a buddy-system and all.” 

“I’ll go,” Allison says, sliding off her stool. “The people down the street know us so they always give us a discount. Dad, is it okay?”

After Mr. Argent gives his consent, Allison and Stiles take orders, but don’t ask if anyone else wants to come along. She glances at Scott, who meets her eye with a look that indicates that he also thinks they’re up to something. Knowing them, they’re going out alone to bitch about Theo. Lydia is fine with this because if she has to deal with one more night of Stiles complaining about the guy, she might throw him out  _ before _ the sex happens, and that would be such a shame.

As they leave together, Lydia joins the rest in clearing off the table, putting the plates into the dishwasher and leaving the cups where they are. When they finish, Malia returns to the table, pours herself more juice, and asks Mr. Argent, “So, do you know if vampires are real?” 

Lydia forces herself not to laugh out loud at the look on Mr. Argent’s face. “Are you joking?” he says. “Vampires? Please, tell me you are kidding.” 

“I’m guessing that’s a no?” Kira says, like it’s a question, as she takes the seat next to Malia. The expression Mr. Argent sends her in answer is downright murderous. “Okay, okay. Definitely no.”

Lydia kind of hopes for all their sakes, as well as Mr. Argent’s blood pressure, that the half-angel’s friend had been screwing with them. As they wait for Stiles and Allison to return, they switch the subject from vampires and half-angels to how the Argent’s weapons business is going, which is less interesting than it should be. 

 

 

Half an hour after Clary gets a text from Allison Argent requesting a meeting a school, Alec shows up with the girls and Jocelyn to his deserted classroom to find Allison and  _ Stiles Stilinski  _ already there. He scowls at the sight of them, and crosses his arms, feet planted apart in a defensive position in the doorway. “What do you want?” he asks as Clary hops up to sit on his desk, crossing her legs at the ankles. 

Sighing, Allison leans back against one of the front row desks and says, “I kind of talked about this to Claire earlier, but it’s about Theo Raeken. He’s this other new kid, and he’s...Well. He’s weird.”

Alec has no idea who she’s talking about, not having the kid in his class, nor has he encountered him anytime he’s had the unfortunate pleasure of being near the pack. He raises his eyebrow and says, “And we should care about this why?” 

“Because he showed up out of nowhere,” Clary says as Jocelyn takes a seat beside her. “It really was weird. And he gives off stalker vibes all the way.”

With the shadow of a grin, Stilinski says, “He’s up there on who to watch out for when checking the neighborhood for sex offenders.” The grin slides off his face and he looks to Alec, then to Izzy, before he focuses on Clary. “Look, I don’t like you. You don’t like us.” Alec looks at him with an expression that he hopes portrays ‘ _ no shit, really? _ ’ Undeterred, the kid continues, “But it’s too much of a coincidence for Theo to show up out of nowhere at the same time you, and your murderous father, run around setting fires in our town.” 

“What a motivational speech,” Izzy says, rolling her eyes. She moves away from the door, where she stood next to Alec, to join the others in the room. “You should really try diplomacy more often.”

“Who is he? This Theo boy?” Jocelyn says, glancing to Clary. “I don’t recognize the name from class. Is he a mundane or a downworlder?”

“Downworlder,” she answers. Alec watches Stilinski’s hand tense at the word. “Another werewolf, I think.” 

Jocelyn nods and says, “It could be that he just wants to join a pack. Plenty of werewolves in Brooklyn joined my husband’s pack.” While this is true, Alec knows that she’s smarter than to think that’s really the case. 

Allison and Stilinski exchange a look, a type of silent communication in the same way that Alec, Jace, and Izzy—and now Clary—have been able to do for years. Seemingly coming to a consensus, Stilinski says, “That’s what he’s been saying. But he’s a lying liar who lies.” 

Alec blinks, while Clary and Jocelyn open their mouths in sync, and Izzy just shakes her head at the antics of this strange mundane. Somehow, he’s even worse than Simon  _ before  _ he was turned into a vampire. Allison thins her lips and says, “Tracy died a few days after he came to town. It might be a coincidence. But there’s no harm in checking it out. If he is working with your dad, then he’s all our problem.” 

“It won’t be the first time he worked with downworlders,” Jocelyn says, running her fingers through her hair like her daughter, “if it suited his purposes. But why teenagers?”

“More headlines when its a kid,” Stilinski says, waving his hand almost dismissively. “And Beacon Hills has lost a lot of kids in the past couple of years. It’s not even a shock anymore.”

Alec is loath to find himself agreeing with the mundane about anything, but he has a point. Izzy seems to think so, as well, because she says, “The local pack leader is a teenager. If Va—Dad—” Alec hopes that neither of their faces shows how strange that phrase is. “—wants to try to manipulate Scott McCall, perhaps he’s going to try on the young first. See if that abomination of his works any better on someone younger.” 

“Yeah, about that,” Allison says, folding her arms. “What exactly is he doing? He obviously has a purpose that none of you have shared with us, but it’s affecting everyone.”

Before he can protest, Jocelyn cuts him off, holding up her hand. “She’s right, sweetheart,” she says, as though to torment him. “It’s time they know. Especially if he goes after their friend. You know what that’s like.” 

Alec looks past the top of her head, focusing on the chalkboard and pointedly  _ not _ looking at any of them. “Whatever,” he mutters, giving up, and leaves it to someone else to explain.

Though it’s a heavily edited version of the truth, Jocelyn explains about Valentine’s plan to turn downworlders into shadowhunters, referring to them as nephilim like they did on the first day. “Iris can tell you more about the affects than I can,” she says when she finishes. “She really is the best at what she does.”

Izzy smirks and sits down in one of the uncomfortable chairs, folding her fingers together. “He’s using some sort of potion, that much I know,” she says. “I don’t know if he’s succeeded at all. But when it fails, the effects are violent. Your classmates’ cells attacked themselves, like cancer. The potion acted like radiation, killing off the supernatural genes, but there was nothing left in their place. Their organs sort of—shriveled and burned. It basically cooked them—” She stops suddenly, and Alec follows her gaze to Stilinski, who appears like he is about to face-plant onto the floor. “Should I stop? Too much detail?” 

“Yeah,” Stilinski says, gripping at the edge of the desk, face even paler than usual. “Yeah, that would be nice. So, basically, what you’re saying is that your dad’s not just homicidal, but also completely, crazy sadistic?”

Alec, for once, agrees with the kid’s assessment of someone, but keeps that to himself.

“Basically,” Clary says, her tone soft. “I’m sorry that this is happening here.” 

With a shrug, Allison says, “Honestly, if it weren’t him, it would be someone else. Beacon Hills has this tree that attracts trouble.”

Conceding to the inevitability of the situation, Alec says, “We’re aware of it. Our people know a lot about supernatural hotspots. We kind of have to.” He doesn’t add that these kids wouldn’t have had to deal with so many supernatural fuck ups if the San Francisco division ever did their jobs. 

“Right,” Stilinski says, face still a bit pale, and clearly put off that they know. “Because you’re what—the guardians of the galaxy?”

Half laughing, Clary says, “Peter Quill is  _ way  _ cooler than my brother.”

Alec glares at her, offended, and absolutely does not snap when he says, “Can we just stay on topic, please?”

Stilinski rolls his eyes and says, “Fine. Fine. Someone needs to pull the stick out of you, dude.” 

Izzy laughs, and then says, “We’ve been trying for years. Anyway, I take it that McCall doesn’t know you’re here?” 

“No,” Allison says, and shifts her weight uncomfortably foot to foot. “Lydia thinks you’re fine, Claire, but no one else really trusts you guys.”

“Oh, right,” Izzy says, scowling. “Because we’re so racist.”

Though Stilinski seems about to say something, Jocelyn cuts him off first, asking, “Racist? What? When did this happen?”

Clary explains briefly what happened in the morgue, but leaves out what happened afterwards—the three of them, but Izzy most of all, ranting about McCall and Stilinski speaking without understanding what they’re talking about. Given Izzy’s feelings for the seelie, Meliorn, and the cold-shoulder that Alec been getting since his failed wedding from their parents, her frustration with the two boys’ assumptions about them was understandable. 

After Clary finishes, Jocelyn just sighs, shoulders dropping and turns her attention to Allison and Stiles. “It’s a fault of our language,” she says. “Yes, some people use it as a racist term. My ex-husband is one of them. But there’s no alternate term—see,  _ we  _ are half-angel, half human. Werewolves, warlocks, kitsune, etcetera are all, in some way, derived from demons or demonic forces. Peace between our people and the downworlders barely dates over a century. No one ever bothered to update our vocabulary.”

“Besides,” Izzy says, almost casually, and looks slyly at Alec, who gets a bad feeling about wherever she’s going with this, “my brother’s boyfriend’s a warlock.”

“ _ Izzy! _ ” he says at the same time that Stilinski crashes into the desk in front of him, and says, “I knew I was right to think you were hot.”

Later, Alec decides, he’s going to murder his sister. She doesn’t even have the decency to look guilty.

Again, Jocelyn sighs, and says, “I think that’s enough for tonight. Next time we should meet somewhere more discreet. How about our house? I’ll make dinner.” 

“Mom’s an excellent cook,” Clary adds.

They agree, and plan to meet again Saturday night. When Allison and Stilinski file out, the mundane boy muttering about his leg and how desk chairs hurt like a bitch, Clary turns to look at the rest of them. “That went better than expected,” she says, which is a lie, because if anything, it went significantly worse. 

“Let’s just hope that the Clave doesn’t find out about  _ this _ ,” he says, knowing that they wouldn’t be happy two mundanes knew this much about them, and already plotting his revenge against his sister for outing him to a pair of strangers. 


	3. Clary Fray and the Terrible Starbucks Coffee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapters might come slower now, because we graduate tomorrow, but that doesn't mean they won't still be coming out. Just in advance.

The strobe lights in the club remind Jace of Pandemonium, but the amount of young mundanes kissing and grinding against one another was excessive even for downworlders. It’s a gay club, the type that Jace and Izzy used to take Alec to under the excuse of reconnaissance, but with even more obnoxious music. At the moment, there are at least three downworlders drinking and laughing by the bar, who’re his targets for the night.

He makes his way over and sits down at the end of the bar, three stools away from them, just at the edge with a good view. Under the concealment rune, no one bothers him, although the man in a leather Harley vest next to him is getting dangerously close to spilling his cosmopolitan all over Jace’s leather jacket. Jace eyes him, two seconds away from kicking him off his stool, but afraid that would only tip the drink further in his direction. 

For a few minutes, he listens to the group’s conversation—the two werewolves, a boy and a girl from different packs, argue about a prank in history class while the mundane and the nisse boy flirt badly—until the female werewolf disappears under a latched door in the bar’s counter. There’s a brief moment where Jace panics, searching out an escape route so he won’t have to interact with any of them yet, but she catches sight of him first, and heads straight over with a clearly fake smile. Her hair’s tied back in a style he imagines Izzy liking, and her neon orange crop top slides off one shoulder, ill-fitting as though she borrowed it from a friend with a wider back. 

“What can I get you?” she asks, sliding a menu over to him. He drops his hand from the hilt of his seraph blade tucked in the back waist of his pants, which he instinctively went to grab. “Soda’s on the back, alcohol on the front. IDs first.”

Jace flashes her a better false ID than Clary’s ever had, along with a better fake smile than the werewolf girl can manage. “I’ll have a seabreeze,” he says, sliding the menu back over. The downworlder doesn’t look remotely surprised, and tells him it’ll be right over.

With remarkable speed, it really is, and a moment later, he has a moderately well made seabreeze in front of him. The girl doesn’t leave, and leans forward, elbows on the counter in front of him so her ponytail spills over her shoulder. “So,” she says, sounding more curious than flirtatious, “what’re you doing here alone?”  

“I was bored,” Jace answers, which isn’t entirely a lie, as he runs his fingers over the rim of his glass, “and my boss was getting on my nerves. A drink seemed good right about now.” 

“Well,” she says, glancing over her shoulder to her friends. The mundane’s disappeared, though Jace tuned out the conversation just long enough to miss where the kid’s gone. “That ID’s totally fake. There’s no way you’re twenty-one, and you’re not human. Don’t worry, I won’t tell.” 

“How can you tell I’m not human?” Jace asks, though he knows that downworlders can usually tell when someone’s not mundane, even if they don’t know quite what they are. 

With a single shoulder shrug and a slightly less faked smile, the girl says, “Maybe I’m psychic.” 

Jace smirks and says, “Maybe. Or it’s because you’re also not human.” The guy next to him goes off to dance, taking away the precarious cosmopolitan. 

“Oh, you caught me,” she says, backing away, and flips her hair over her shoulder. “I’m a werewolf. What’re you?”

Calling himself a  _ nephil _ is a gamble, since there’s always a chance the person he’s speaking with someone who knows what the word means, but lying is a hazard when it comes to werewolves. She nods, like she knows what it is, but the blank-face expression gives her confusion away. Instead of asking for elaboration, she says, “Cool. I’m Hayden.”

“Jon,” he answers. Only his father calls him Jonathan, but it works well enough when he doesn’t want to use his actual name, in case his friends or the Clave are looking for him. “Those your friends?” he asks, gesturing towards the werewolf boy and the nisse. “You aren’t the only one who can tell when people aren’t human.”

With a quick glance over her shoulder, she says, “Yeah,” and scrunches her nose. “If you’re bored, you should go over. Liam looks like he’s going to go, and I need him to stay so he can tell me how to get on the lacrosse team.”

She doesn’t indicate which of them is Liam, but he guesses she means the shorter of the two. Shrugging, as though it’s no big deal, he says, “Why not? I’ve got nothing better to do.”

The shorter boy—Liam—is talking as Jace makes his way over, Hayden wiping up the bar where he left his drink. “I think they’re making the team co-ed. The new girl—the one with the traffic cone hair—Coach has let her on the team now. She’s good,” the werewolf continues with a slight pout. “Really fast. Like, I can’t even catch up with her. It’s not right.” 

“Are you talking about the girl who hangs out a lot with the hot English teacher?” the other boy asks. Suddenly, Jace is reminded of Clary and her bright orange hair, and he’s struck by how much he misses her and the Lightwood siblings. “The really tall one?”

“Yeah,” Liam says, and the pout that was only slight is now emphasised. “He watches her practice. All the time. Just sits there, grading papers and glaring at the field. Hey, who’re you?”

Though Jace wants to ask more about the girl and the teacher watching her, he holds his tongue, and slides into the stool next to Liam. “Jon,” he says again. “Hayden sent me over to make sure you stay put. Something about a lacrosse team.”

Scowling, Liam says, “I  _ told  _ her tryouts were over,” before looking fully to Jace and introducing himself. He adds, “This is Corey. Why did she send  _ you _ exactly?”

“I’m the only other not human in this bar,” he says, gesturing around the club towards the myriad bodies grinding on the floor to “Drop It Like It’s Hot.” Jace kind of wants to draw a rune on his arm that can block out horrible music, but he doesn’t even know if one exists. If Izzy was here, she’d know. “Shared camaraderie of being a supernatural creature.” 

Liam’s scowl softens into a frown. “I’ve never seen you before,” he says, “and Scott knows everyone.”

Jace figures that this is probably Scott McCall, the idiot who reactivated a tree that draws everything supernatural to it like a black hole. What’s worse, the San Fransisco unit didn’t bother to stop him. Shrugging, he answers, “I’m not from around here. My father wanted to travel, so here we are, for a little bit.” 

“Beacon Hills has nothing,” Corey says, leaning over the bar so he can see around Liam. “Why stop  _ here? _ ”

“Just passing through,” Jace says, which isn’t strictly speaking a lie. “It’s cheaper than the other towns in the area.”

Hayden reappears across the bar, stopping in front of them with another two sodas, and says, “Yeah, all the murders might have something to do with that.”

“What murders?” he says, concentrating to keep his heartbeat even. “I haven’t heard about any murders.”

“Well,” Liam says, “It’s not something a town’s going to advertize, is it? No one’s going to want to live here if they know that there was a hit list out on a bunch of people only a year ago. And that’s only one incident.” 

“Wait, a  _ hit  _ list?”

Hayden and Corey exchange a look as Liam explains about a dead pool for Beacon Hills’ supernatural creatures. “Scott cost twenty-five million,” he says. “It sucked.”

Jace thinks that is probably an understatement. “That’s a lot of money,” he says. “Glad I wasn’t here then. Don’t even want to know how much  _ I’d _ be worth.” Shadowhunters would be worth billions, to certain demons.

“Do you know how long you’re going to be around?” Corey asks, swapping his straw from his first glass into his second. 

“Not long enough to buy a house or anything,” Jace answers. “Why are you still here? I mean, you were on a dead pool. I’d get out of town the second that happened, if it was me.” 

Liam shakes his head. “My family is here. I can’t just leave. We’ve  _ all  _ got family here.”

By now, Jace has learned it takes more than one meeting to convince a person to come along with him, so he drops the subject, even if the fact that there was a dead pool is fucked up. “Offer’s there,” he says, sipping his drink. “So, what’s going on with this lacrosse thing?”

“I want to get on the team,” Hayden says, cleaning a stain on the counter overdramatically. “It’s going co-ed. First Kira, and now Claire. And they’re two of the best on the team. You just don’t like her because she’s better than you, Dunbar.”

Liam scowls and says, “Monet is not better than me.” 

Jace chokes a bit on his drink at the name, waving it off when Corey looks at him with concern, and grabs a napkin to cough into it. Claire Monet? An orange-haired Claire, whose last name is the same as a famous artist? Seriously? Could she be anymore obvious? Jace expected her to follow him, but he never imagined she would be so stupid to do it  _ that _ conspicuously. 

Then again, Clary would never join a lacrosse team. She’s a paint-her-jeans girl rather than the type to run around with a group of boys on fake grass. And besides, he thinks, she’s a few months too old for high school anyway.

After a moment, he recovers enough to speak, and hopes they pass it off as choking on his drink. “That’s cool that the team’s going co-ed,” he says, attempting to appeal to all of them, “but isn’t a teacher watching her, uh, kind of weird? I heard you say it before.”

“I’m pretty sure they’re related or something,” Liam answers, “but I don’t know. It’s not like they look alike. She’s kind of short, has  _ really _ orange hair, probably dyed, and he’s extremely tall. Dark haired—”

“ _ Really  _ pretty,” Hayden says, though Jace can’t tell which one she’s referring to. Dark-haired and pretty  _ does _ describe Alec, but he can’t think that Alec would ever play-along as Clary’s relative. And it certainly doesn’t describe Simon, at all, even if he could ever be said to be tall.

Liam rolls his eyes and continues, “They could be cousins.”

“Or James and Lily Potter,” Corey says, nonplussed by the incredulous look that Liam shoots him, while Hayden giggles. Jace wonders who James and Lily Potter are, and assumes its some mundane thing. They’re probably politicians. 

Suddenly, his phone vibrates, signalling the end of the conversation just in time. “I have to go,” he says, pulling out his phone and his wallet. “It’s my dad. How much is this?”

When Hayden says it’s only seven ninety-nine, he hides his surprise, because that’s dirt cheap compared to New York City. Before he leaves, he passes out his number with a promise to keep in touch for as long as he’s here, and to call if he encounters any trouble. On his way out, he passes the mundane that had been talking to the three downworlders earlier, and thinks nothing of it. 

 

 

On Friday evening, Kira takes Malia out for a first date at the local sushi bar, but Kira asks Scott and Allison to come along as a double, and Malia asks the same of Lydia and Stiles, so now all of them are here, talking about the mysteriously disappearing Derek Hale rather than letting anyone flirt. Scott considers this still slightly better than his first date with Allison, which sadly involved Jackson, but his friends probably would’ve benefited if they were alone.

Malia certainly seems to share this sentiment, because she’s been shooting them glares all night long, as she struggles with holding her chopsticks. It’s a struggle Scott sympathizes with, but at least Kira’s clearly enjoying having to manually instruct her. If a waiter actually caught his eye, he’d ask for a check just for the four of them and leave, but that doesn’t seem to be happening any time soon. To make it worse, he doesn’t even  _ like  _ sushi—and especially wasabi, which he still thinks looks deceptively like delicious guacamole. Stiles and Lydia seem to be enjoying themselves, though, having consumed three dragon rolls and a plate of shumai (whatever that is) together. Like Scott, Allison doesn’t like sushi much, and intelligently stuck with miso soup rather than him, who tried to be adventurous and ordered a California roll. 

Scott cranes his neck to look towards a waiter standing by the door, hoping that the pleadings signals he’s shooting the guy will speed up their retreat, when the door opens and Liam walks in. He’s quickly followed by Hayden, Mason, and a small, mousy looking boy in a grey sweatshirt. In a second, Liam spots them, waves off the host’s attempt to show them to a table, and rushes over. 

When Malia sees them round the side of the booth, she sits straight, smacking her chopsticks flat against the table so the dishes rattle. “What the hell?” she says. “This is a  _ date _ , not a play pen.”

“Should have just stuck with pizza,” Kira mutters, looking two seconds away from burying her head in her hands, as Liam and the rest attempt to squish into the booth. 

Stiles grunts as the unknown boy sits on the edge of the booth, making both Lydia and Malia shift over. Hayden’s elbow digs into Scott’s hip as both she and Liam get onto his side, while Mason stands there, debating for a few seconds, before he drags a chair over from a surrounding table. Even if the restaurant is mostly deserted, the waiter still manages to glare at them for the noise, which is the most attention they’ve gotten all night. Of course. 

As Lydia shifts, practically on Malia’s lap, she stares around at the newcomers, and says, “Do you  _ mind?  _ My god.”

“Something weird just happened,” Liam says, reaching over and picking at rice left over on Scott’s plate with his unused chopsticks, expertly maneuvering the miniscule grains. Though he tries not to be offended, he fails, because Liam has no right to be that good at chopsticks. “I mean really weird. We were—”

“You’re seriously crashing our date because something weird happened?” Stiles says, glaring at them all. “Liam, you’re not five, let go of the apron strings.” 

Shaking his head, Liam says, “No, it was  _ too  _ weird. Listen, I’m sorry, but we were in the Jungle—”

“Why were you in the Jungle? You’re fifteen,” Lydia says, which is hypocritical because Scott knows for a fact she and Danny have been going there since they were thirteen. 

Hayden sighs, loud and impatient. “I work there,” she says. “I don’t give them alcohol or anything. Oh, don’t give me that look—I’ve got permission. Anyway, so there was this guy—”

“There’s a lot of guys at the Jungle,” Allison says, pushing away her empty bowl of soup. 

“Yeah,” Mason says, leaning forward so his elbows are on the table, “but probably not that many that these guys can see and I can’t.”

That gets Scott to pause, because he can’t even think of many people like him who can be selectively invisible. “What,” he starts to ask, but Kira cuts him off by asking who the new guy is.

He waves, hand in front of Stiles’ face, and says, “I’m Corey. I think I’m dating Mason.” 

“You  _ are  _ dating Mason.”

With a groan, Malia presses her head into her hands. “I didn’t want this to be a fucking five couple date,” she says. Liam and Hayden immediately protest that they aren’t dating, but Scott joins the others in ignoring them. “I’m not signing up for an orgy here! I just want to date a hot girl. Is that too much to ask?” 

“I’m sorry,” Lydia says, waving her chopsticks towards Liam and Mason, “but can we go back to the invisible guy?” 

Next time Kira can bring Malia out somewhere without chopsticks, Scott thinks, which doesn’t make him feel any less guilty about helping along in this first date disaster. “Yeah,” he says. “So there was this guy, and you could see him but Mason couldn’t? Did you talk to him? Did he say what he was?”

Hayden nods and says, “His name was Jon. He called himself a ne—f—something I can’t really pronounce. He didn’t really explain what that was, though. Do you guys remember?” After they all say they don’t, she continues, “He was asking all this stuff about whether or not we were happy here and, like, invited us to leave with him. See? It was weird. But he didn’t seem weird until Mason asked why we were just talking to thin air.” 

Scott tries to look at Stiles, because he knows instantly what Hayden’s talking about, but he’s looking at Allison, so he shares a look with Lydia, who frowns. “Was it nephilim?” she says. 

“Oh, yeah,” Liam says. “That was it. What’s a neph—whatever.”

“They’re half-angels,” Scott answers. “Or so we’ve been told.” Until he sees proof that they’re lying about why they’re here, he’s not exposing them, and this might have to do with their dad instead of them.

Hayden, however, asks, “I’m sorry, they? Who is they? Who told you that?” 

There’s an awkward pause before Allison clears her throat. “Well,” she say, “my family does kind of have a bestiary,” as though Liam and Hayden aren’t werewolves who can tell when they’re lying.

“Scott, what’s going on?” Liam says, twisting to look past Hayden. “You know something.”

“Just tell him,” Malia says. “Then they can go away.” 

Though Liam and Mason are trustworthy, Scott doesn’t know enough about Corey or Hayden to know whether or not they’re safe. Even so, he’s trapped now, and can’t think a way out of  _ not  _ telling them. “Around the start of the semester,” he says, “these new people showed up calling themselves half-angels. They’re looking for their little brother because their dad kidnapped him. We’re leaving them alone, but they’re pretty sure his dad’s responsible for Tracey and Josh dying.”

Mason’s eyebrows shoot up and he says, “Are you talking about the Monets? ‘Cause they are  _ too _ pretty to be human.” 

“So was this guy,” Hayden says. “He was insanely hot. Like the love-child of Chris Evans and Sebastian Stan kind of hot.” 

Scott’s admittedly noticed that they’re all really good looking, too, and wonders if it has to do with being part angel. Probably. Something good has to come out of that combination. Next time, he thinks, a handsome man in his mid-to-late forties crosses his path, it might be a good guess to think that’s their dad. 

“Well, if you see him again,” he says, “just get out of there. Obviously he’s bad news. They all are.”

Corey shrugs and says, “He seemed fine to me. Was really horrified at the dead pool.” 

“Uh, anyone would be,” Kira says, placing down her chopsticks. Somehow, she actually managed to finish eating. “I mean, it was a dead pool. We had bounties.”

Under his breath, Stiles says, “But Parrish was only worth five dollars,” which makes Lydia laugh.

“Did he say anyone else was travelling with him?” Scott asks. 

“He mentioned a boss,” Hayden says. “And he said something about his dad a few times.”

That meant at least two people working with the Monet siblings’ father. Scott wondered how many more were, if any. Before he can say anything else, Malia calls loudly for the check, drawing the attention of every waiter in the area. Of course, now they look over. 

After a moment, their first waiter comes over, carrying a check already split three ways. As he leaves, Malia says, “We’re going to go to the woods.  _ Alone _ . Now.” 

“Please,” Kira says, clearly relieved, and throws a twenty and a five on the table. “Bye, guys. Be careful next time you’re at a club, Liam.”

Malia and Kira leave, with one more disgruntled look towards Liam and his friends, while Stiles and Lydia argue over who is paying their portion of the check, even though Scott knows it’s going to be Lydia. Eventually, Stiles concedes to Lydia paying, throwing his arms up in the air dramatically, and announces he’s going to wait outside by Roscoe. 

Sighing, Allison grabs Scott’s hand, and, turning to him, says, “I’ll get this one.” She glances to his mostly uneaten California roll, except for the bits that Liam had eaten. “We can make grilled cheese at my house. Extra avocado.”

Scott’s stomach grumbles in agreement, and he follows her and Lydia back to Roscoe, running though the details about this new half-angel in Beacon Hills, and what the guy’s purpose in the club had been. 

 

 

On Saturday morning, Clary wakes up dismally early for a lacrosse practice she doesn’t care about, and brings Alec along because none of them like being out on their own. By the time practice is over, it’s ten, cold, and they’re waiting out the worst of the rain in the girl’s locker room. It’s a dark, dingy room with loud industrial fans spinning on the ceiling that made changing unpleasant, and slatted metal windows. 

He’s holding his burnt cup of Starbucks coffee in his hands, and sitting on the bench across from her, cross-legged. His hair is more unkempt than usual, and he runs his hand through it before he says, “You’re lucky I like you, or else I wouldn’t be up at this ungodly hour.” 

Even when he didn’t like her, he still woke up horrendously early, but that was because Jace asked. She tries not to think about how fucked up this is, and takes a sip of her own horrible coffee. “Well,” she says, adjusting her position on the bench in a failed attempt to find something comfortable, “I’d say at least you get coffee out of it, but that isn’t saying much with this.”

For a few minutes, neither of them say anything, preoccupied by their own thoughts. She scratches the Coney Island Ferris wheel into the bench with her unclicked pen, uncaring about graffiti accusations, while he plays with his phone. Then, suddenly, without warning, he says, “Why did you keep defending me? I was such a dick to you.”

The way he say it is uncomfortable, like he’s been waiting to for a while. She hesitates, unsure how to tell him the truth, because she’s learned by now that he and Izzy really can’t understand what it was like growing up as a mundane. “I know you were just trying to do your job,” she says carefully, “and that part of it—okay, look. I grew up in New York City, in Brooklyn, in the art scene. Who you love, who you want to be with, that doesn’t matter as much there. I just wanted you to know that someone understood that, even if we didn’t get along, Alec.” 

He ducks his head, embarrassed and looking a lot younger than twenty-one. “Thank you,” he says. “Izzy knew but she didn’t really—Oh, wow, isn’t Starbucks coffee awful?”

For about a millisecond, she’s confused by the abrupt switch, but then she hears Stiles and Allison’s voices by the door. “Yeah,” Clary says quickly, looking down at her cup. “I miss the coffee back home.”

Without even knocking, Stiles bursts through the door, one hand over his eyes. “Is everyone decent?” he says. “My delicate eyes don’t need to see any naughty bits, right now.” 

“You’re such a dork,” Allison says, and spies Clary and Alec sitting facing one another on the bench in front of the locker nearest the door. “Hey. We need to talk to you.”

Considering that they’re in a locker room, Clary thinks this should be understood as not a good time. It smells of old, dirty panties and sweaty socks, and not even the window that’s open can fan out that potent combination. After a quick glance at Alec, they both agree, and the other two join them on the opposite bench. 

“So what’s up?” Clary says, turning to face them. “What happened?”

“Is someone dead?” Alec asks, probably assuming that only a death would draw Allison and Stiles out into the open to talk to them. 

Shaking her head, she says, “Not a death, but still maybe something connecting to your dad,” and explains about Liam Dunbar meeting a boy named Jon in a club the night before. 

“Jon? What did he look like?” Clary asks, hoping that Liam told them more than just the encounter being  _ weird _ . “Did Liam say?”

Again, Allison shakes his head. “Hayden just said he was pretty,” she says. 

That could be Jace, but then again, it could be another shadowhunter for all she knows. Maybe there  _ is _ one named Jon. She shares a look with Alec, hoping that he’ll know what she’s thinking. He shakes his head minutely, and says, “That’s not much to go on.” 

“It’s better than nothing,” Stiles says, a bit snappish, as if he expects them to be extremely grateful. 

Allison points out that at least it tells them that their father’s recruiting, but Clary stops listening, trying to calm herself down before she does anything stupid. Even without proof, she just  _ knows  _ that this is Jace. It’s been two months of chasing whispers and half-promising leads, but she’s never felt close to finding him before. There’s always the chance he doesn’t want to see her—them—again. They’ve all changed. He spent months with Valentine; who knows what he’s like now. But what matters is that they finally have a chance.

For now, that feels like enough.

When she glances to Alec, she finds him unconsciously playing with the hem of his shirt near his parabatai rune. “We’ll look into it,” he says. “Until then, get out of here. We’ll see you at dinner.” 

As they stand, Stiles says, “Yeah, about that. What’re we having, nectar and ambrosia?”

Clary laughs, but it sounds forced even to her. “Oh, no,” she says with a smile. “Don’t you know what happens to mortals who eat the food of the gods? We don’t want to burn our guests.”

Allison pulls him away forcefully, and Clary waits until she’s sure they’re gone before she turns back to Alec. “Do you think?” she says, and he nods. Again, they fall into silence, and sit in the quiet, dim locker room, waiting out the rain, their cups of Starbucks coffee forgotten. 

 

 

Later that night, Alec sits down between Clary and Magnus, and eyes the brussel sprouts on his plate with trepidation. Across the table, Allison and Stilinski sit side by side, plates piled high with Jocelyn’s cooking, and wisely ignoring the latest disaster that Magnus brought. If he hadn’t been so upset about the jello mould incident, Alec would avoid the brussel sprouts, too, but he’s still trying to figure out how to do this whole boyfriend thing, and doesn’t want to fuck up.

Though Clary’s been guilted into eating them as well, Isabelle is safely far away from the brussel sprouts, having been called to the morgue in order to work a shift. Simon is bothering her, partially because he wants to keep the pack guessing about whether or not he’s a vampire and avoiding  _ all _ food would be too suspicious, and partially just to be obnoxious. When she took the internship for her cover, she hadn’t been expecting actual insane hours, and has been complaining about it vehemently since it began. Teaching might not be the greatest pastime, but Alec thinks he got the better fake career path, since it’s relatively reasonable. 

Everyone has been sitting in awkward silence for the past ten minutes, no one quite sure how to talk to one another. Normally, no one shuts up, so the quiet’s unnerving. The mundanes must think so too, because eventually Allison breaks and says, “This is great, Mrs. Monet. What’s the sauce?”

Jocelyn made stir-fry with vegetables and rice, and tossed it with peanut sauce. “Thank you,” she says with a smile. “It’s peanut butter, rice vinegar, sesame oil, and sriracha. I avoided using soy sauce in case one of you was allergic.”

There’s another beat of silence. Then Stilinski says, “Ah, thanks. That’s thoughtful of you.” He seems a bit confused by it, but takes a bit of the stir-fry and makes an odd noise of what is probably approval. 

Alec’s portion of stir-fry is almost gone, and he longs to reach for more, wanting to leave the brussel sprouts to sit for a little bit longer before he bites the bullet. Magnus’ leg knocks into his, either on purpose or by accident, and then his boyfriend says, “You haven’t touched them yet,  _ Alexander _ .” Magnus only calls him that when he’s annoyed, or when he’s using it as a term of endearment. Either way, it’s a guilt trip, so Alec closes his eyes for a second before he forks the smelly sprout. It’s just as bad as he imagined, but he forces himself to swallow anyway.

“They’re really good,” Clary says, smile plastered on, but making a valiant effort to seem genuine, and saving Alec from having to compliment them. “Where’d you get the—”

“Wait,  _ Alexander? _ ” Stilinski says. Alec freezes, fork halfway to his mouth, in the same moment Clary and her mom do. Luke just shoots a glare at Magnus, like a promise to make him pay for the slip up later. “Isn’t the normal nickname Alex? Why’d you go with  _ Alec? _ ”

Oh shit, Alec thinks, realizing that they must have heard Clary say his name in the locker room. He’s a bit frustrated, considering that he’s been complaining about McCall and Stilinski lack of discretion for days now. Then again, with those fans, it’s not as though he and Clary could hear anyone coming. 

“Yes,” he answers, through gritted teeth. “Usually.” He shoots a look at Magnus, who looks contrite, and _really_ , a three-hundred something warlock should have better skills at being covert. 

“Well,” Luke says, clearing his throat. “Now that your name is apparently out, we might as well just tell them the truth. Since we’re working together and all.” 

Both Allison and Stilinski perk up at that, which Alec tries not to find annoying. “Yeah,” Allison says, failing at sounding as though she doesn’t care. “That would be nice.”

Before anyone else can say anything, Magnus cuts in, “I’m Magnus Bane, and I’ve been alive since Leif Eriksson sailed across the Atlantic.” 

“No, you haven’t,” Alec says, too irritated to deal with his boyfriend’s bullshit. “He’s a warlock, but he isn’t that old. I’m Alec Lightwood. Isabelle’s my sister. Clary isn’t. Simon is her friend and still related to no one here. Jocelyn and Luke aren’t our parents.”

Everyone looks a bit startled at his reaction, but Jocelyn quickly recovers. “We  _ are _ looking for my son, Jace. We think the boy your friends met might be him. Oh, and I’m Jocelyn Fairchild. This is my daughter Clary, and my boyfriend Luke.”

Allison’s eyebrow lifts up and she says, “Wait? So your son  _ isn’t _ a child?” 

“What?” Clary says. “Wait, no. He’s my  _ older  _ brother. What did you think this was, the worst custody battle ever?”

“Uh, yeah,” Stilinski says. “Kind of. So, wait, are you are still from New York? Do you know Derek Hale?” The mundane addresses that question to Luke, who looks a bit confused. “He’s a werewolf. Lived there for a while.” 

With a short laugh, Luke says, “Kid, do you know how huge New York is?”

Again, there’s another awkward silence. Magnus takes a bite of his brussel sprouts, and says, “And you two? Any burning secrets? Quid pro quo.” 

The two hesitate for a moment before Allison sighs. “Well, my last name’s Argent. You know, of  _ the  _ Argent family.”

Though shadowhunters consider human hunters something of a joke, they’re still an issue for downworlders, so it’s not a surprise when Luke practically growls. “You’re kidding,” he says. “How’s that motherfucker Gerard?”

As Stilinski laughs, Jocelyn squeaks in surprise. “Luke,” she says. “ _ Language. _ ”

“Mom,” Clary says, exasperated, “I’m not five.”

“He’s ingested mountain ash and now he’s in a nursing home,” Allison says, nonchalantly. She doesn’t seem concerned about the fact that a relative of hers consumed  _ mountain ash _ . 

“Good,” Luke says with a feral grin. “I was hoping he would have a pleasant life.”

To Alec’s mild surprise, Stilinski actually smiles with something like affection. “It was  _ beautiful _ ,” he says, and adds, “Oh, and I was possessed by an evil, murderous fox demon for a while, but I got better. So, if your brother’s really only your brother, and isn’t a kid, and this isn’t a custody battle, then what’s going on?”

Together, Alec and the others explain the situation in a jumbled, non-chronological mess, which he’s sure is confusing, but gets the point across. When they finish, Clary says, “But it’s not like Jace is evil or anything. He’s only doing it to save us. Really.”

It’s what they’ve been telling themselves for the past two months, but sometimes Alec isn’t sure that Valentine has turned Jace around to his way of thinking. There’s been no letters, no texts, nothing to indicate that Jace is even thinking of them. And Jocelyn, Luke, Hodge, and Alec’s own parents are proof that Valentine can be pretty convincing.

But he’s kept this to himself. For Clary’s sake.

“Do you have a picture of him or anything?” Allison asks. “It would be a lot easier for me and Stiles to help if we knew what he looked like.” 

Immediately, Alec whips out his phone to find a picture, and sees Clary do the same. Within a minute, they both have up a picture of Jace—for Alec, it’s one of Izzy and Jace on one of the Institute library’s couches with their arms around each other, and for Clary, it’s Jace alone on the docks near the pack’s hideout. 

Allison and Stilinski both lean over the table to look at the pictures. When they’re done, Stilinski leans back and says, “So are all you half-angels insanely good looking?” 

“Oh, no, honey,” Magnus says as Alec thinks of Valentine with a barely contained shudder. “Let’s just say I’m thankful Alec here takes after his mother.”

As Alec protests that most of the Institute says he looks more like his dad, Clary takes out a pen, and sketches Valentine on her unused napkin. “By the way,” she says, sliding it over to their guests, “this is Valentine. My father. I look like Mom. Thankfully.”

Stilinski and Allison both reach for the napkin at the same time, shooting each other looks, before the boy releases it and allows Allison to study it. “Yeah,” she says, her expression covered by her hair, “he looks nothing like you.” 

Stilinski nods, and tosses the napkin back to the center of the table, after Allison hands it to him. “He kind of looks like a serial dater from Tinder,” he says as Magnus reaches over to take it. “The kind that seeks out teenager girls.” 

Alec has no idea what Tinder is, but it sounds insulting, so begrudgingly he approves of the mundane’s statement. Magnus looks at the napkin and says, “You really are extremely talented, Biscuit.” 

“Oh, thanks,” Clary says, slipping her pen away to wherever she grabbed it from in the first place. She has so many that Alec lost track of their locations a while ago.

By now, they’ve all finished, with the only food left over the brussel sprouts. Magnus takes one long look at them, and sighs. “All that hard work,” he says, and lights them on fire with a wave of his hand so Clary and Alec shoot backwards to avoid being burned by purple flames. 

“What the  _ fuck? _ ” Stiles says, away from the table too, even if he was nowhere near the fire. Neither Jocelyn or Luke have moved, both too used to Magnus’ antics. 

“Didn’t you hear?” he says. “I’m a warlock.”

“Yeah, but Deaton uses magic, and he’s never done that kind of freaky light show before,” Stilinski protests, waving his hand all around. 

Almost impatiently, Allison says, “He’s a druid, not a warlock.”

As the flames fade, he resumes his seat, and Jocelyn stands. “So,” she says, glancing around the table. “Dessert? I made flourless chocolate cake, since I didn’t know if either of you were gluten free.”

Sometimes, Alec wonders what growing up with a mother like Jocelyn would have been like. His own parents didn’t cook, and the only guests they had over were somehow politically advantageous. It’s doubtful his mother would ever think to take potential allergies into account. 

Allison and Stilinski express great enthusiasm at the flourless chocolate cake, but say neither of them are gluten free. Clary crumbles the napkin with Valentine’s face into a ball, and throws it over the burnt remains of the brussel sprouts as Magnus uses his magic to spirit the dishes away into the kitchen after Jocelyn. As she leaves, Luke turns his attention fully to the mundanes, and asks, “Do either of you know how to fight?”

Considering one’s the daughter of a hunter, and one’s the son of a cop, Alec assumes they do, but while Allison says she does, Stiles says he doesn’t. “Do you really think my dad let me use a gun?” he says, half-laughing, which is so ridiculous that Alec doesn’t know how to respond. 

Clary, however, does. “You run around with werewolves,” she says. “You’re saying you don’t know how to fight?” 

Stiles shrugs like being helpless in the face of death is no big deal. “I have a baseball bat.” The idea of taking on a werewolf with a baseball bat makes Alec and the others cringe. 

Magnus, with a slight smirk on his face, says, “Is it a magic baseball bat, by any chance?” 

Stiles blinks, and says slowly, almost like a question, “No?” 

Twirling his finger, Magnus says, “Then I could easily magic it away from you, and kill you before it even reached my hands.” 

“You’ve got training,” Clary says, staring at Allison. “Why didn’t you teach him? This is dangerous.”

Clearly taken aback, Allison says, “It just never came up.”

“Oh my god,” Clary says. “This is ridiculous.” Turning her attention to Stiles,  she says, “We’re  _ so  _ teaching you. Right, Alec?”

Though Alec wouldn’t normally consider spending more time with these two than he has to, the thought of leaving Stiles to run around defenseless, ready to get himself killed, leaves him unsettled. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ll text Izzy. She’ll like it.”

As Jocelyn rejoins them, carrying flourless chocolate cake in one hand and a stack of dessert plates in the other, Alec texts his sister and Clary texts Simon. Meeting these mundanes is going to become more complicated, but the two aren’t going to stop getting in the way, so they might as well  _ both _ know what they’re doing. Being the reason these two are dead is not something Alec wants to live with for the rest of his life. 

 

 

Most Saturday nights the pack gets together at one their houses to hang out, and tonight, it’s Scott’s. Lydia’s been there several hours already, destroying Theo in  _ MarioKart _ on Scott’s N64, when Mrs. McCall walks in carrying a tray of oatmeal raisin cookies. 

“Where are Stiles and Allison?” she says as she places the tray on the coffee table next to Kira, who sits next to Malia at Lydia’s feet. She grabbed the couch the moment she arrived, squished between the armrest and Scott’s side. “I made extra for them.”

Lydia and Scott exchange looks. Neither of them actually know where Stiles, or Allison, are but they assume it’s because Theo is here. Scott clears his throat, and says in his best attempt at a lie, “Allison and Stiles are helping her dad with something. Family business, guns, don’t want werewolves around.” 

“Isn’t that discrimination?” Mrs. McCall says with a slight frown. 

Though Lydia wants to point out that these are hunters, so it’s just to be expected, Theo’s a semi-worthy opponent, and she needs to keep her attention on the round. Rainbow Road is the absolute  _ worst. _

Malia, though, isn’t preoccupied by anything. “That’s what hunters do,” she says, snaking her arm around Kira to grab an oatmeal cookie. “Thanks, Mrs. McCall.”

The rest of them parrot her, and Mrs. McCall says, “You’re welcome. Well, okay. Whatever you don’t finish I’ll wrap up, and they can have tomorrow.” It’s not a question anymore that the four of them will meet up again Sunday and do something alone. 

After Mrs. McCall retreats upstairs to watch  _ Chopped _ , Theo says, with his eyes trained on the screen, “I think I—goddammit!”

Lydia laughs victoriously as Luigi goes tumbling off the edge in the same moment Princess Peach crosses the finish line. “Sorry, Theo,” she says insincerely, passing the controller to Kira. “I win again.”

Without Stiles here, Lydia has no real competition, which simultaneously makes this more boring, and more fun. Theo scowls, obviously not serious but making the effort, and passes off his controller to Scott. As Kira picks Bowser’s Castle, she asks, “What did you think?”

“Oh,” he says, picking up a cookie. Lydia takes her eyes off the screen for a second to scrutinize the deceptive cookies masquerading as chocolate chip, which she refuses to eat on principle. “I think I saw them with the Monet siblings.” 

That gets her attention, and everyone else’s. Scott and Kira hit pause at the same time, and turn to look at him. “What?” Scott says. “Seriously? When?”

“What were they doing?” Lydia asks. “Where were they?”

If Theo’s surprised by everyone’s reaction, he doesn’t show it. “In the school this morning,” he says, “when I went to go meet up with you guys after lacrosse. Stiles looked like he was giving his number to Claire. That’s her name, right? The redhead?”

Although Theo seems concerned that Stiles might be cheating, and that’s what he’s obviously thinking, Lydia knows that would never happen. Stiles isn’t the least bit attracted to Claire, so if he ever had the thought to cheat—which he wouldn’t—it wouldn’t be with that particular Monet “sibling.” And after Allison’s almost death, and their love confession post-stabbing, Scott and Allison had to be pried away from each other with a two-by-four. With Isaac gone to South America with Derek, there’s no one Allison would want to be with that way, and they were already over before he left. There’s something else going on, though Lydia can’t figure out what it could possibly be, and she finds the uncertainty unsettling. 

Scott frowns, playing with the controller in his hand, clearly lost in thought, until Kira unpauses the game, giving him something else to focus on. Malia keeps her attention on Theo, like Lydia, because neither of them have a distraction. “That’s weird,” Malia says bluntly. “They don’t even like each other.”

“Of course Stiles doesn’t like her,” Lydia says, rushing to think of an excuse, as none of them have told Theo yet the truth, Unlike Liam, he’s still not in the pack officially. “She’s way better than him in lacrosse.”

“Uh,” Theo says, “I don’t think that’s that hard. No offense.” He picks up another cookie before he continues. “Maybe it's for a school project?” 

The only class they have together is English, which Lydia has with them, and knows there are no projects for. Actually, she doesn’t think there ever will be projects, because Mr. Monet doesn’t seem the type to assign them. “Maybe,” she says anyway, wanting to get off the subject before Theo directly states any suspicious he might have. “It’s not like teachers ever let you pick your partners.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I can’t tell you how many times I had to partner with  _ Jackson _ . Harris put us together all the time.”

Though Lydia knows Jackson wasn’t the nicest guy around, sometimes she does wish Scott and Stiles were a little less mean about him. Even if he did leave her for London’s flavorless food, and break up with her by text message. 

Maybe they have a point. 

“Doesn’t your mom let us pick partners?” Kira says. “Liam said she let them for  _ his  _ class. That’s how Mason spilled acid on his shoes.”

Lydia smiles tightly and replies, “Yes, but my mom’s nice like that.” 

The conversation changes to school, before switching again to weekday plans. Throughout the night, Lydia watches Scott out of the corner of her eye, worried for her friend, because the troubled look never leaves his face. 


End file.
